The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 7

up an' doon the parish

It has made a bonny sang,
That he didna ken his neebor's wife

Had ang-bang-pang.
They've pit her in hot water baths
To lat the body steep,
They're
feedin' her on tablets
Frae the puddens o' a sheep,

They're talkin' o'
a foreign spaw
Upon the continang,
They think they'll maybe cure
her there
O' ang-bang-pang.
There's mony ways o' deein' that
Oor faithers didna ken,
For ae way

foond in "Buchan," noo
The doctors gie us ten;
But I hope to a' the
Pooers abune
Auld Death may be owre thrang
To come an' smoor
my vital spark
Wi' ang-bang-pang.
THE SPEESHALIST.
Saturday Night.
Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen,
For ye ken ye are
juist a young kimmer,
An' I am a mither that's beerit fourteen,
An'
forty year mairrit come simmer;
When ye see your bit bairnie there
drawin' up her knees,
Wi' grups in her little interior,
Juist gie her a
nip o' a gude yalla cheese,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!
The doctor had said that ye shouldna row'r ticht,
Ye should aye gie
the wee cratur's belly scope?
Awa' wi' the lang-leggit lum-hattit fricht

Wi' his specks an' his wee widden tellyscope!
What kens he o'
littlens? He's nane o' his ain,
If she greets it juist keeps the hoose
cheerier,
See! THAT was the wey I did a' my fourteen,
An' ye'll
find that there's naethin' superior!
I tell ye, noo, warkin' fowk canna draw breath,
What wi' sanitries,
cruelties, an' bobbies,
An' the doctors would pit ye in fair fear o' death

Wi' their blethers o' German macrobbies!
I've been at their lectures
on health an' High Jean,
Gude kens that I niver was wearier!
Use
your ain commonsense when ye're treating' your wean,
An' ye'll find
that there's naethin' superior!
Sunday Morning.
She's awa'? Weel, ma wumman, I thocht that mysel',
When I saw
your blind doon frae our corner,
An', says I, "I'll juist tak' a step
upbye an' tell
Twa or three things its better to warn her."
'Twas the
doctor's negleck o'r, the auld nosey-wax!
There's naethin' to dae noo,
but beery her,
Tammy Chips mak's a kist here at seeven-an'-sax,


An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!
ISIE.
The wife she was ailin', the doctor was ca'ed,
She was makkin'
eneuch din for twa,
While Peter was suppin' his brose at the fire,

No' heedin' the cratur' ava.
"Eh, doctor! My back's fair awa' wi' it noo,

It was rackit the day spreadin' dung;
Hae Peter! Come owre wi' the
lamp, like a man,
Till the doctor can look at my tongue!"
But Peter had bade wi' her near forty year,
Fine acquaint wi' her
weel-soopled jaw,
Sae he lowsed his tap button for ease till his wame,

Wi' a gant at the wag-at-the-wa'.
"Weel Isie," says he, "an' it's me
that should ken,
That's the ae place ye niver hae cramp.
The lamp's
bidin' here: if he's seekin' a sicht
O' yer tongue he can pull't to the
lamp!"
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
I dinna ken what is the maitter wi' Jeams,
He canna get sleepit at
nicht for his dreams,
An' aye when he waukens he granes and he
screams
Till he fair pits the shakers on me!
Can ye no mak' up somethin' to gie him a sleep?
I'm tellin' ye, doctor,
he gars my flesh creep,
Till I'm that fu' o' nerves that the verra least
cheep
Noo juist fair pits the shakers on me!
Wi' his meat he was aince a man easy to please,
But last Sabbath he
flang the fried ingans an' cheese
That I had for his supper richt into
the bleeze,
An' he fair pit the shakers on me!
Then he sat in the ingle an' chowed bogie-roll,
An' read "Jowler's
Sermons" an' talked o' his soul,
Faith! conduc' o' that sort's no' easy to
thole,
For it fair pits the shakers on me!

He's plenty o' siller, ye're sure o' your fee,
Just gie him a soondin', an'
gin he's to dee,
Come oot wi' the truth-dinna fash for a lee,
It'll no'
pit the shakers on me!
What! Juist heepocondry? Nocht wrang wi his chest?
The Deil flee
awa' wi' the man for a pest!
To think o' me lossin' sae mony nichts'
rest
An' him pittin' the shakers on me!
Ay, though he may rout like the bull in the park,
I'se warrant the
morn he's on wi' his sark,
An' aff wi' the rest o' the men till his wark,

An' he'll no' pit the shakers on me!
THE AULD CARLE.
The auld man had a girnin' wife,
An' she was aye compleenin',
For
a' kin' o' orra things
The body aye was greenin'.
It's "I'll try this,"
and "I'll try that,"
At ilka adverteesement,
She flang his siller richt
an' left
An' niver got nae easement.
The carle he led sic a life,
The haill thing was a scunner,
Sae ae
braw day his birse was up,
He fairly roondit on her.
"Ye're aye gaun
to dee, gude-wifeFowre
nichts I hinna sleepit,
Gin it's to be, I wush
to peace
Ye'd set a day an' keep it!"
Wow! noo there was a tirravee!
An angry wife was she, than!
"An'
is it no' my ain affair
The day I'm gaun to dee, than!
Aha!