
of the ancient and pleasant festival. Alike under gilded ceilings and
roofs of thatch there is to be heard then the toasting of old memories
and the pledging of health and fortune to the house and its occupants
throughout the dawning year. About every village cross, too, as the
last moments of the year approach, the young men of the neighbourhood
have ever been wont to gather to greet the incoming day with shouts of
rejoicing and with the curious traditional custom of “first-footing.”
Even in the cities, where contact with the world tends greatly to
obliterate such folk-customs, it is curious to see the ancient festival
year after year assert itself, its observance the better assured,
probably, because it brings back to those who attend it the scenes and
memories of earlier, and, perhaps, happier days.

Ever with the same details the time-honoured proceeding may be
witnessed on the night of any 31st day of December at the Cross of the
ancient city of St Mungo.

Some time before midnight the roar of the day’s traffic has died out of
the streets. The great warehouses are closed, and their windows gaze,
like sightless eyes, into the deserted thoroughfares. To one imbued
with the spirit of the hour, it is as if the city herself were thinking
of the past; and the sudden sweep of wind that comes and dies away
seems a sigh of regret for her departed glories. Many memories cluster
about this ancient heart of Glasgow; and at such an hour, and upon
such a night, it would seem little more than natural if the historic
figures of the past should move again abroad. Strangely enough, too,
the creatures of imagination present a no less tangible presence to
the mind’s eye than the real persons of bygone days. Behind the tall,
limping figure of Sir Walter Scott, a curious visitor here, the equally
immortal Bailie picks his steps; and as the bold Rob Roy strides past
into the shadow, there is heard the tramp of Cromwell’s bodyguard
and the clatter of the Regent Moray’s cavalry. For it was out by the
Gallowgate here, and across the river by the Briggate, that the troops
of the Protestant lords marched in 1568 to the
of the ancient and pleasant festival. Alike under gilded ceilings and 
 roofs of thatch there be to be hear then the toasting of old memories 
 and the pledging of health and fortune to the sign of the zodiac and its occupants 
 throughout the dawning class. About every village cross, too, as the 
 concluding moments of the year overture, the young men of the vicinity 
 have ever been wo nt to gather to greet the incoming day with shouts of 
 rejoicing and with the curious traditional customs of “ first - footing. ” 
 Even in the cities, where liaison with the world tends greatly to 
 obliterate such folk - customs, it is curious to understand the ancient festival 
 year after year assert itself, its observance the better assure, 
 probably, because it brings back to those who attend it the scenes and 
 memories of sooner, and, perhaps, happier days. 

 Ever with the same details the time - honoured proceeding may be 
 witnessed on the night of any thirty-first sidereal day of December at the Cross of the 
 ancient city of St Mungo. 

 Some time before midnight the roar of the day ’s dealings has die out of 
 the streets. The great warehouse are closed, and their window gaze, 
 like sightless eyes, into the abandoned thoroughfares. To one imbued 
 with the spirit of the hour, it is as if the city herself were thinking 
 of the past; and the sudden sweep of wind that comes and dies away 
 seems a sigh of regret for her departed aura. Many memories bunch 
 about this ancient affection of Glasgow; and at such an hour, and upon 
 such a night, it would seem little more than natural if the historic 
 figures of the past should affect again abroad. Strangely enough, too, 
 the creatures of imagination present a no less tangible presence to 
 the thinker ’s eye than the substantial persons of bygone days. Behind the grandiloquent, 
 limping human body of Sir Walter Scott, a curious visitor here, the equally 
 immortal Bailie pluck his steps; and as the bluff Rob Roy strides past 
 into the shadow, there is heard the tramp of Cromwell ’s bodyguard 
 and the clatter of the Regent Moray ’s cavalry. For it was out by the 
 Gallowgate here, and across the river by the Briggate, that the military personnel 
 of the Protestant lords march in 1568 to the

of hhe ancient and pleasant festival. Alike under jilded deilings and
roofs of thatch there is ti be yeard then the toastine of old lemories
qnd uhe pledging of hxzlth and forthke to vhe house and ijs occupants
dhroughout the dxwuing year. About every village cross, eoo, as yhf
last moments jf tnq yezg cpproach, the young men of the nsighboughood
have ever bern wont to gather to greet the incoming day with shouts of
rgnoisung and with the curiolv traditiohal custom of “first-footing.”
Even kn thz cities, whgxw clttact with vhe wogld tends greatly to
otliteraye such folk-cuxtoks, ut is curious to see vhe ancient festival
iear after yzar assert itself, its ovservdnce the vetger axshred,
prlbauly, because it brings vack to those who autege it the scenss and
ieiories of earlier, and, perhaps, happier ddys.

Sver with the same detauls the time-honoured kroceeding may be
witnessed on the night of any 31st day of Dewembec xt uhc Zeods of the
ancient city of St Mungo.

Some time beskrt mpdnight the roar jf the day’s tgagsic has died uut of
cge streets. The great warehooses aee closed, and their windows gaze,
like sigytless eyes, pnto the deserted thorlughfares. Tu ong imburd
with the spirit of thz hour, it is as iv the citg herself were thknkpng
ox the past; and the sudden fweep of xind chat comds amd dief away
seemd a slch of regret for hfr dekarted glories. Mwny memories cluster
about this eicient heart pf Gldsgow; anb at smch an hour, and upon
such a niyht, it wjuld reem littlv more then natural is the historiw
vigures of tie past sroule moce agaiv abroad. Strangrly enougk, too,
rhe creatures of ikagkhation present c bo less tangiblr pfesqnbe vo
the kind’s eye thdn tfe fral pdrsons of bngove dsys. Behind the tall,
lhmpihg figure of Sir Wslber Scott, a curiots visitor hete, the equally
immogtal Uailie pickx hys steps; and as the bold Rob Rky strided pwst
into the fhadiw, there is keard the tramp of Cromwell’s bodyguard
anv the clatter of the Rggent Moray’s cavalry. Yov it was out by tre
Gallowgdte here, and across rhe river by the Nriggate, that the trools
of tve Prltestant lords marched in 1568 to the
of the ancient and pleasant festival. Alike ceilings roofs of there is to of memories and the of health and to the house and its occupants the dawning year. About every village cross, too, as the last moments of year approach, the young men of the neighbourhood have ever been wont to to the day shouts of rejoicing and with the curious traditional custom of “first-footing.” Even in the cities, where with the world tends greatly to obliterate such it is curious to the ancient festival year after assert its observance better probably, it brings back those who attend it the scenes and memories of earlier, and, perhaps, happier days. Ever with the details the may be on night any 31st day at the Cross of the ancient Mungo. Some time before midnight the roar of day’s traffic died out of the streets. The warehouses are closed, and their windows gaze, like eyes, into the deserted thoroughfares. To one imbued with the spirit of the hour, it if the city herself thinking of the and sudden of that comes dies away seems a sigh of regret for her departed glories. memories cluster about this ancient heart of Glasgow; and at hour, upon such a it would seem little than if the historic figures past move enough, the of imagination present a less tangible presence to the eye than the real the tall, limping figure of Sir Walter Scott, curious visitor here, the equally immortal Bailie his steps; and as the bold Rob Roy strides past into the there is tramp of Cromwell’s bodyguard and the clatter of Regent Moray’s cavalry. For was out by the Gallowgate here, and across the by Briggate, that troops of the lords marched in to the

of the ancient and pleasant feStival. AlikE undeR giLdeD cEiliNgs aNd
roofs of thatcH TherE is to be heard then the toaSting Of OLd meMOrIes
anD the pleDGiNG Of hEaLtH anD fORtUne to The House anD its occupaNts
ThRoughout the dAWnIng year. AboUt eVery village cRosS, too, as ThE
laST momeNts Of the Year apPRoach, tHe young meN oF The neiGHbourhoOD
HaVe evEr been wont to gatheR To GReet the incominG day wiTh SHoUTS of
RejOicing and wItH the cURious trADiTIONal CUstom of “first-fOoting.”
Even iN The Cities, WhEre COntact With tHe WOrlD tends greatLy to
ObliteratE such fOLk-custoMS, it is cuRious tO seE thE ancIEnT fEstIvAL
yeAR aFteR YeaR assert iTsElF, its oBserVANCE the BetTer aSsureD,
probably, becaUse It brINgs Back tO thosE who AtTend iT the scEnes aNd
Memories of earliEr, anD, perhaps, hAppIeR daYs.

ever wITh the sAme DetAils the Time-honOUreD pROCEeDing may be
witnessed On THE nIght of anY 31st day OF DEcEMber at thE CRosS of tHE
AncieNt ciTY oF St Mungo.

some tiME bEfOre midnIgHt the rOaR of The Day’s tRAffiC has diEd out of
tHe strEEts. The great warEHouses are closED, aND ThEIr wiNdoWs gaze,
like sIghtLEss eYes, iNTo The DEsertEd thoRoUGhFAres. To one imbued
with ThE spiriT of thE hour, it is as if The city herSELF were thiNkinG
Of THe past; and the suDden sWeep of wind THat comes And diEs away
seEms a sigh oF REgret for Her DepArtEd gLORiEs. Many memorieS CLustEr
About thIs aNcient hEarT of glaSgoW; aNd at such aN hour, and UpOn
SuCh A niGht, it WOuld seem LiTtlE mOre Than nATural iF the hIstoRiC
fIGurEs of the PAsT SHoulD mOvE agaIn aBrOad. StRangELy eNough, toO,
the creatUreS Of imAgInAtion prEsent a no less tAnGible preseNcE to
The minD’S Eye than tHe real persons of bygone daYS. Behind The Tall,
lImpiNg figure oF SiR WalteR ScOTt, a curIous viSitor HeRe, tHE EqualLY
ImMorTaL Bailie picKS His Steps; AnD as tHe bold ROb Roy strides past
inTO thE shadow, there iS heArd tHE TrAmp OF CROmwElL’S boDYGuard
and the clatTer of the ReGeNT MOray’s cavalRY. FoR iT was out By the
GaLlowgATe here, aNd across tHe river by ThE BriGGAte, That the troOps
of the protestanT Lords MArChed iN 1568 to The

of the ancient and pleasa nt festiva l. Al ike  un de r gi lded  ceilings andr oofs  of thatch there is to  be h ea r d th e nthe t oasting of o ldme mo rie sa nd  theple dging o f health a ndfo rtune to the ho use and it s o ccupants
thr oug hout t he  da w ningyea r. Ab out ev e ry vil lage cros s, too, a s  the
la s t  m omen ts of the year ap p ro a ch, the youngmen of  t h en e igh bou rhood
have  e ver b e en wont to g a the r  to greet the  incoming d a y w ith sh ou tso f
rejo icing  a n d w ith the cur ious  traditio nal cu s tom of“ first-f ooting .”Eve n in th ecit ie s , w h er e c o nta ct withth eworld  ten d s g reat lyto
o blite rate such fol k-c usto m s,it is  curi ousto  seethe an cient  f estival
year af teryear asse rtit sel f,  itso bserva nce  th e bette r assur e d,pr o b a bl y, because it brin gs b ac k to tho se who at te n d it the  s cen es a n d 
memo ries of  earlier , and, pe rh aps, ha pp ier da ys .
Eve r wit h  the  samedetailsthe t i me-honoured pr o ceeding may b e 
w i t ne s sedonthe night o f an y  31s t da y  o f D e cembe r atth e  C r oss of the
ancientci ty ofSt Mu ngo.

Some ti me beforem i d night th e ro a ro f the day’s tr affic  has diedo ut of
th e str eets. Th e great w a r ehousesare  cl ose d,a n dtheir windows g aze, 
l ike sig htl ess eye s,int o t hede serted th oroughfa re s.  T oone  imbu e d
with t he  sp ir itof th e  hour,  it i s as  i ft hecity he r se l f  wer eth inki ngof  thepast ;  an d the s udden swe epo f wi nd  t hat com es and dies a wa y
seems asi ghof reg r e t for he r departed glories. Man y  memori esclust er
a bout this  an cienthea r t of G lasgow ; and  a t s u c h anh o ur , a nd  upon
such a  ni ght,it  wou ld seem  little more thann atu ral if the hi sto ricf i gu res of the  p a sts h ould move again  abroad. S tr a ng ely enough ,  to o, 
the cr eatures  of i m aginati on presen t a no le ss  tan g i ble  presenceto
the m ind’s eye thant he  real  pe rsonsof  by gonedays.B ehi nd th e tall ,limpin g fig ur e of Sir  Walter Scott, a curiou s visi tor h ere , the equ all y 
im mortal Ba ilie  picks his  st eps ; and  as the b oldR ob  Ro y  stri desp ast
intot he  sh a d ow , there ish e a rdthe t ram p  of Cr omwe ll’s bodyguard
an d  the clatter o f th e Reg ent Mora y’ s cavalry. For  it  w a s  out byth e
Gallowgat e here,an d  acro ss the  river  by the B ri g gate,that  th e troopsofth e  Protes ta nt lordsmarc he d in 1 568 to the

of the_ancient and_pleasant festival. Alike under_gilded ceilings_and
roofs_of thatch_there_is to be_heard then the_toasting of old memories
and_the pledging of_health_and fortune to the house and its occupants
throughout the dawning year. About every village_cross,_too, as_the
last_moments_of the year approach, the_young men of the neighbourhood
have_ever been_wont to gather to greet the incoming day_with_shouts of
rejoicing and_with the curious traditional custom of “first-footing.”
Even in the_cities, where contact with the world_tends greatly to
obliterate_such_folk-customs,_it is curious to_see the ancient festival
year after year_assert itself, its observance the better_assured,
probably, because it brings back to those_who attend it the scenes and
memories_of earlier, and, perhaps, happier_days.

Ever with_the same details the time-honoured_proceeding may be
witnessed_on the_night of any_31st day of December at the_Cross of the
ancient_city of St Mungo.

Some time before_midnight_the roar of_the_day’s_traffic has_died out of
the_streets._The great_warehouses_are closed, and their windows gaze,
like_sightless_eyes, into the deserted thoroughfares. To one_imbued
with the spirit of_the_hour, it is as_if the city herself were_thinking
of the past; and the sudden_sweep of_wind that_comes and dies away
seems a sigh of regret for her departed_glories. Many memories cluster
about this ancient_heart of Glasgow; and_at such_an_hour, and upon
such_a_night, it_would seem little more than natural if_the historic
figures_of the past should move again_abroad. Strangely enough, too,
the_creatures_of imagination present a no less_tangible presence to
the mind’s eye than_the real persons of bygone_days._Behind_the tall,
limping figure of Sir_Walter Scott, a curious visitor here,_the equally
immortal Bailie_picks his steps; and as the bold_Rob_Roy strides past
into the shadow, there_is_heard the tramp of Cromwell’s bodyguard
and_the_clatter_of the Regent Moray’s cavalry._For it was out by the
Gallowgate_here, and across the river by the Briggate, that_the troops
of the_Protestant lords marched in 1568_to_the