The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 2

wi' the great muckle skate,
An' the lum hat wantin' the
croon!
She floatit fu' mony a mile,
Past cottage an' village an' toon,
She'd
an awfu' time astride o' the gate,
Though it seemed to gree fine wi' the
great muckle skate,
An' the lum hat wantin' the croon!
A fisher was walkin' the deck,
By the licht o' his pipe an' the mune,

When he sees an auld body astride o' a gate,
Come bobbin' alang in
the waves wi' a skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
"There's a man overboord!" cries he,
"Ye leear!" says she, "I'll droon!

A man on a boord! It's a wife on a gate,
It's auld Mistress
Mackintosh here wi' a skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!"

Was she nippit to death at the Pole?
Has India bakit her broon?
I
canna tell that, but whatever her fate,
I'll wager ye'll find it was
shared by a skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
There's a moral attached to my sang,
On greed ye should aye gie a
froon,
When ye think o' the wife that was lost for a gate,
An' auld
fish-hake an' a great muckle skate,
An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
THE PAWKY DUKE.
[It is hoped that all Scottish characteristics known to the Southron are
here: pawkiness and pride of race; love of the dram; redness of hair;
eldership of, and objection to instrumental music in the Kirk; hatred of
the Sassenach; inability to see a joke, etc., etc. An undying portrait is
thus put on record of the typical Scot of the day.]
There aince was a very pawky duke,
Far kent for his joukery-pawkery,

Wha owned a hoose wi' a gran' outlook,
A gairden an' a rockery.

Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Hoot ay! An' a rockery!
For a bonnet
laird wi' a sma' kailyaird
Is naethin' but a mockery!
He dwalt far up a Heelant glen
Where the foamin' flood an' the crag is,

He dined each day on the usquebae
An' he washed it doon wi'
haggis.
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Hoot ay! An' a haggis!
For
that's the way that the Heelanters dae
Whaur the foamin' flood an' the
crag is!
He wore a sporran an' a dirk,
An' a beard like besom bristles,
He
was an elder o' the kirk
And he hated kists o' whistles!
Hech mon!
The pawky duke!
An' doon on kists o' whistles!
They're a'
reid-heidit fowk up North
Wi' beards like besom bristles!
His hair was reid as ony rose,
His legs was lang an' bony,
He keepit
a hoast an' a rubbin'-post
An' a buskit cockernony!
Hech mon! The
pawky duke!
An' a buskit cockernony!
Ye ne'er will ken true

Heelantmen
Wha'll own they hadna ony!
An' if he met a Sassenach,
Attour in Caledonia,
He gart him lilt in a
cotton kilt
Till he took an acute pneumonia!
Hech mon! The pawky
duke!
An' a Sassenach wi' pneumonia!
He lat him feel that the Land
o' the Leal
'S nae far frae Caledonia!
Then aye afore he socht his bed
He danced the Gillie Callum,
An'
wi's Kilmarnock owre his neb
What evil could befall him!
Hech
mon! The pawky duke!
What evil could befall him?
When he cast
his buits an' soopled his cuits
Wi' a gude-gaun Gillie Callum!
But they brocht a joke, they did indeed,
Ae day for his eedification,

An' they needed to trephine his heid
Sae he deed o' the operation!

Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Wae's me for the operation!
For weel
I wot this typical Scot
Was a michty loss to the nation!
MACFADDEN AND MACFEE.
[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto
appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken
down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen
Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents
recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir
Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now,
alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]
It was an' aboot the Lammas time,
In sixteen forty-three, sirs,
That
there fell oot the awfu' fecht
'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.
Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk
Upon the morn's morn,
Had
washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk
An' combed his Sabbath sporran.
An' bein' for the time o' year
Remarkably fine weather,
These
articles o' dress were laid
To air upon the heather.

Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre
The bonnie braes o' Lorne,

Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit
Upon Macfadden's sporran.
A piece o' carelessness like this
The brichtest heart would sadden,

An' when he saw the caitiff deed
It fair gaed owre Macfadden.
For he was shavin' at the time,
An' when the sicht he saw, sir,
Wi'
rage he shook an' nearly took
His neb aff wi' his raazor.
A while he swore and staunched the gore
An' ere Macfee got ae lick,

Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels
In comprehensive Gaelic.
Syne when his breath was a' but gane,
An' when he couldna say more,

He lat a muckle Heelant yell
An' at him wi' his claymore.
What sweeter sound could warrior hear
Unless it was