Publisher's Synopsis
The Glesca Mileeshy is no regiment in particular. The story is simply a composite study of the types who fill the ranks of our Militia Regiments, now known as The Special Reserve. In the near future I hope to give a pen picture of our Territorials-the splendid force with which I am at present connected. Spud Tamson Enlists. THE Glesca Mileeshy was a noble force, recruited from the Weary Willies and Never-works of the famous town of Glasgow. It was also a regiment with traditions, for in the dim and distant past it had been founded by 1000 heroic scallywags from out of the city jails. These men were dressed in tartan breeks and red coats, given a gun and kit, shipped straight to the Peninsula, and on landing there were told to fight or starve. "We'll fecht," was their unanimous reply, and fight they did. Inured to hardships, they quickly adapted themselves to the tented field, and early displayed a thirst "Ay-I waant tae jine the Mileeshy." "Which Militia?" "The Glesca Mileeshy, of coorse." "Very well, come with me, and I'll get you a Field-Marshal's baton," said the sergeant with glee, for this recruiter was feeling thirsty and much in need of his half-crown fee. He led Spud into the recruiting office, and told him to strip. "When did you have a bath last?" "Last Glesca Fair," answered Spud, quite unashamed of his nigger-like skin. "What! Ten months ago?" "Ach! that's naething; ma faither hisna had a waash since he got mairret." "Well then, what's your age?" "Age! I dinnae ken!" "Don't know your age?" "Naw, but I wis born the year that the auld chap wis sent tae Peterheid." "Oh, what was that for?" 10 "Knockin' lumps aff the auld wife's heid wi' a poker." "Very well, we'll say you're nineteen," added the sergeant. "Now, what's your religion?" "The Salvation Army. Ye see, the auld chap kept in wi' them, for they gie him a bed when he's 'on the bash.'" "And what's your occupation?" "Cornet-player. I blaw the trumpet, an' the auld chap gies oot the balloons and candy." "What is your full name and address?" "Spud Tamson, Murder Close, the Gallowgate, five up, ticket number 10,005." "That's a big number!" "Ay, that's the number o' fleas in the close." "Now, my lad, get into that bath and then you'll pass the doctor." When Spud emerged from the water he was a different lad. The grime of years had gone, leaving his skin pink and fresh. He looked fit indeed with the exception of his spurtle legs and somewhat comical face. However, the old sergeant wanted his half-crown, so Spud had to pass by hook or by crook. He made him hop round the doctor's room like a kangaroo, and when he was just on the verge of failing in the eyesight test he whispered the number of dots in his ear. And so Spud Tamson was passed as a fullblown private into the Glesca Mileeshy. "There's the shilling. Go home and say good-bye to your friends; but remember, be at the station to-night at eight." "A' richt, sergint. I'll be there," replied Spud, as he marched proudly out of the door. Soon after, he announced the news to his now fond and proud parents.
