The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 8

ye think
ye'll tryst the wricht
An' rid him o' his timmer?
Syne haud anither
waddin' wi'
Some feckless, thowless limmer!"
Awyte, but noo she's fu' o' life
She's ta'en anither tack o't!
An' aye
that she flees oot on him
His words is at the back o't!
Sae keep your
tongue atween your teeth
When ettlin' to be cliver,
Ense ye'll be like
the auld carle
An' en' waur aff than iver!
THE FEE.

In the heicht o' the foray
Sir Raif got a clour,
Sir Raif the
regairdless,
In battle sae dour.
O cleanly the saddle
They ca'ed
him attour!
Then aid for his wounds
He did sairly beseech,
An' aff to the
greenwood
In shade o' a beech
They hurried auld Simon
The
kintra-side's leech.
Wi' a tow roon' his neck
Simon knelt on his knee,
An' he saw as he
glow'red
Wi' the tail o' his e'e
That armed men held it
Owre
bough o' the tree.
"Noo, Simon, to heal
Is your trade, no' to kill,"
Quo' Sir Raif, "An'
though, mark ye,
We dootna your skill,
Grup the tow, knaves! If
need be
Pull up wi' a will!"
"But what o' my fee,
Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?"
"Gin I live, Master
Simon,
I'll wager it's safe!
There! Laugh not, ye villains,
His neck
ye may chafe!"
O stanched was the blue blude
That ran on the grass,
Sae eident was
Simon
His skill to surpass,
Sir Raif was in fair way
His foes to
harass.
An' the fee they gae Simon
The tale is aye rifeFor
fittin' Sir Raif

To wield sword i' the strife?
'Twas the greatest e'er gi'enFor
they
gae him his life!
HERE ABOOTS.
Doon in the placie I hae my hame
We're an ill-daein' pack o' deils,

For ilk ane gangs a gait o' his ain
An the lave play yap at his heels.

It's argy-bargy-awfu' wark!

An' whiles we come to blows
Till a
man's ill-natur' lappers his sark
As it sypes awa' frae his nose.
The rizzon o't's no' far to seek,
I'll tell ye plump an' plain,
We ken

oor neebours' business bestThe
Deil may hae oor ain!
The wricht's a
billy for settin' banes,
The meenister deals in pills,
The doctor
thinks his gift's to preach
An' the pollisman mak's oor wills!
There's whiles I think we're waur than maist,
There's whiles I dinna
ken,
A raw o' neeps is no' a' like
An' why look for't in men?
Sae
gin ye get your birse set up
By some dour cankert carle,
Content
yersel'! For min' it tak's
A' kin's to mak' a warl'!
DROGGIE.
Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad!
A kin' o' thinness o' the blude?

Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam?
Keep's a'! But that's rale nesty, Tam!

An' lossin' taste noo for the dram?
(An' may it dae ye muckle
gude!)
Noo! See the libel! "Thrice a day
A tablespunefu' efter food."

Drogues is nae better than they're ca'ed?
Some drumlie-like? Losh!
ye're a lad!
The taste'll be byordnar' bad?
(An' may it dae ye muckle
gude!)
Weel, here's your mixtur'-auchteen pence,
I'd mak' it cheaper gin I
could.
For beast or body maist fowk ken
Best's cheapest at the
hin'er en',
An' on my drogues ye may depen'.
(An' may they dae ye
muckle gude!)
Forgot your siller? Hae ye though?
Ye're in a richt forgetfu' mood!

Gie't ye on tick? I ken ye fine?
An' whustle on my fingers, syne!

Lat's see that bottle! Here's your line!
(An' may it dae ye muckle
gude!)
THE WEE DRAP.
He's a muckle man, Sandy, he's mair nor sax fit
A size that's no'
handy for wark i' the pit,
But frae a' bad mis-chanters he'd aye keepit

free
Excep'in' that nicht he'd a fire in his e'e.
He was lyin' an' holin' at wark at the face,
For the gaffer had gi'en him
a gey dirty place,
Sae while i' the gloamin' I sat owre my tea
He
lowsed an' cam' hame wi' a fire in his e'e.
Ae wife says "Saut butter," ane "Sugar o' leed,"
An' anither says
"Poultice the back o' your heid!"
He first tried them singly an' syne
tried a' three,
But sairer an' sairer got Sandy's sair e'e.
Wi's heid in blue flannen (he couldna stan' licht)
I'se warrant he lookit
a bonny like sicht,
Till dang near deleerit, as hard's he could flee,

Eck ran to the smiddy for ease till his e'e.
The smith was a billy wha cam' frae the sooth,
An' was awful sair
fashed wi' a sutten-doon drooth.
He claimed half a mutchkin as
fore-handit fee,
An' syne yokit howkin' in Sandy's sair e'e.
The p'int o' his gully, an' sleeve o' his sark
Was a' the smith's gibbles
for surgical wark.
For ae fire extrackit the smith pit in three,
Till
Eck was fair rackit wi' pain in his e'e.
At last to the doctor he gangs daft wi' pain,
An' gets a gude sweerin'
an' syne some cocaine.
The fire was ta'en oot then, to Sandy's great
glee,
An' he spent the neist week wi' a drap in his e'e.
THE TRICKSTER.
'Twas the turn o' the nicht when a' was quate
An' niver a licht to see,

That Death cam' stappin' the clachan through
As the kirk knock
chappit three.
An' even forrit he keepit the road,
Nor lookin' to either side,
But
heidin' straucht for the eastmost hoose
Whaur