The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 6

a fecht wi' the snaw,?An the road was near smoort oot wi' drift;?While the maister at market had got on the ba',?Sae I'd tint my ae chance o' a lift.?When I passed the auld inn as I cam' owre the hill,?Although I was mebbe to blame,?I bude to gang in-bye an' swallow a gill,?That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
"Gude be thankit!" says I, at the doctor's front door,?As I pu'd like mischeef at the bell;?But my he'rt gae a dunt at the story that runt?O' a hoose-keeper body'd to tell.?The man wasna in? He was at the big hoose??A sick dwam cam' richt owre my wame.?Hoo the deevil was I to get haud o' him noo,?That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame?
The doctor was spendin' the nicht at the laird's,?For the leddy, ye see, was expeckin';?A feckless bit cratur, weel-meanin' an' a',?Though she ne'er got ayont the doo's cleckin'.?It's them that should hae them that hinna eneugh,?Fegs, lads, it's a damnable shame!?Here's me wi' a dizzen, and aye at the pleugh?Sin' that nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!
What was I to dae? I was at my wits' en',?For Tibbie the howdie was fou,?An' e'en had I got her to traivel the road?What use was she mair than the soo??I was switin' wi' fear though my fingers was cauld,?An' my taes they were muckle the same;?Man, my feet was that sair I was creepin' twa-fauld?That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
Three hoors an' a hauf sin' I startit awa',?An Deil faurer forrit was I!?Govy-ding! It's nae mows for the heid o' the hoose?When the mistress has yokit to cry!?A set o' mis-chanters like what I'd come through?The strongest o' spirits would tame,?I was ettlin' to greet as I stude in the street?That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!
But a voice that I kent soondit richt in my lug,?Frae my he'rt it fair lifted a load?As I tells him my story, for wha should he be?But the factor's son hame frae abroad.?"It's a brute of a night, but to doctor's my trade,?If ye'll have me, my laddie, I'm game!"?An' he druve his ain trap seeven mile through the snaw?That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
Ay! an' cracked like a pen-gun the hail o' the road?An' though I was prooder than ask,?When he fand I was grewsin' awa' at his side?He filled me near fou frae his flask.?Syne when a' thing was owre an' I gruppit his han'?Says the wife, "We maun gie him the name!"?An' there's aye been a gude word for him i' the hoose?Sin' the nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.
HUMAN NATUR'.
As I gang roon' the kintra-side?Amang the young an' auld,?I marvel at the things I see?An' a' the lees I'm tauld.?There's Mistress-weel, I winna say:?I wadna hurt her pride,-?But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife,?Nae peppermints can hide.
Then there's the carle I said maun bide?In bed or I cam' back,?An' frae the road I saw him fine?Gang dodgin' roond a stack;?I heard him pechin' up the stair?As I cam' in the doorBut?Faith! My lad was in his bed?An' ettlin' for to snore.
An' here's a chap that needs a peel,?He chaws it roon' an' roon',?He's narra' i' the swalla', an'?He canna get it doon.?Yet whiles his swalla's wide eneuch,?The muckle ne'er-dae-weel,?Gin it had aye been narra'er?He hadna nott the peel.
Ye tend them a', baith great an' sma',?Frae cradle to the grave,?An' add to sorrows o' your ain?The tribbles o' the lave,?An' yet ye find they're a' the same,?When human natur's watched,?It's no' ill deeds they haud as wrangThe?sin o't 's when they're catched.
ANG-BANG-PANG.
O hae ye heard the latest news?O' Mistress Mucklewame??Her doctor hadna pickit up?Her trouble here at hame,?Sae they took her tae a speeshalist?To fin' oot what was wrang,?An' it seems noo a' the bother?Has been ang-bang-pang.
Faith, in the marriage market then?Her man's had little luck,?She's just a muckle creishy lump?That waddles like a juck;?But the nerves gaun through her body's?Been the trouble a' alang,?An' its complicated noo, ye see,?By ang-bang-pang.
I've aye held oot oor doctor?Was a skeely man afore,?But I'll never lat the cratur noo?A stap inside the door!?A' 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