The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 5

wi' hauf o's breeks,
Cam' clean aff at the hurdies.
Jock swat wi' fear, an' in the dark
He crep' attour the smiddy,
For,
weel-a-wat, he thocht his wark
Would land him on the widdy.
An'
wi' the leg he ran till's hoose,
Just half way doon the clachan,
His
cronies oxterin' Corkie oot,
An' nearly deein' o' lauchin'.
But at Jock's door they stude an hour,
An' vainly kicked an' knockit,

Sin' Jock, in a' the fear o' death,
Had got it barred an' lockit.
An'
'twas na till the neist forenune
They fand the leg, weel hidden,
For
Jock was oot afore daylicht
An' stuck it in the midden.
This feenished Jock, an' efter han'
He buckled til his ain wark,
For
sune a' owre the kintra-side
They kent aboot his bane wark,
An' hoo
a law-wer fleggit Jock
At Corkie's instigation,
An' gart him pay a
five-pun' note
By way o' compensation.
Ne sutor ultra crepidam
Is gude enough for maist o's,
For aye
there's wark that's bude to get
The better o' the best o's.
An' just as
doctors canna shoe
Or haud a hin' leg stiddy,
Ye needa seek for
surgery
Inside a country smiddy.
BRITHERS.
'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen
I keppit a tinkler chiel,

The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,
He was waesomely
doon at the heel;
But he made me free o' his company,
For he kent
that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een,
He cam' o' an auncient clan;
He
gae me gude-day in a freendly way,
While he spak me man to man,

Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame
An' his for kettle an'
pan.
"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae,
Ye're free o' the road,
like me,
I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot,
Wi' an orra-like weird to
dree;
An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men',
Wi' luck to fix oor fee!
Brithers baith o' the auld high roadYet
the Deil hae General Wade

For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step
Wi' the weary wark o' his
spade,
Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo
Owre the hills
whaur the heroes gaed!"
"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast,
Or whither awa' gang ye?
Will
ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides,
For a tastin' o' barley
bree?
Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again
As lang as there's
kebbuck to pree.
Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth?
Ye needna be langer
in doot;
Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on,
An' I'll get ye a pan to
cloot.
I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in,
An' as freely lat ye oot."
A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow,
An' a rag on't fluttered free,

While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there,
That I'm bathered
if I could see,
Though I kent my soul was sib to his
In a queer
free-masonry.
"The wife's a mile on the road afore's,
An' the bairnies farther still;
I
canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk,
But I'll borrow the price o' a gill,

An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack
O' a' that's gude an'
ill."
He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne,
An' quately winked an e'e;

"The road's a bond that we canna deny,
An' its linkit you an' me

In

the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk,
Whauriver they chance to be!"
On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk,
An' he leggit it doon the
wind;
Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock,
Guid Lord!
he'd an easy mind!
An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's

For a' that I can find.
THE CYNIC.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw,

An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat
Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'.

When he sichtit it he dichtit it,
An' he glowred wi' an angry e'eFor

says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Ye've a gey
gude crap," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast baith snell an' keen,

An' the washin' o' the clarty wife
Sailed aff the washin' green,
An' it
landit on the midden-heid,
Whaur nae washin' ought to beAn'
says
auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Weel, hame's aye
hame," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' it gart the deid leaves loup,

An' it set the shoothers heicher yet
O' the gaithrin' at the roup;

An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer,
Till the cratur' couldna see;

An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Turn
aboot's fair play," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' the rein catched the grey
mear's tail,
An' her heels to save her hin'er en'
Gaed lashin' like a
flail.
An' the haill apotheck lay in spails,
As the grey mear warsled
free;
An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt:
"Wha's
seekin' ony spunks?" says he.
THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME.

I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired,
A' day I'd been hard
at the pleugh;
The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on,
An' the
win' had a coorse