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

"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 an auld wife used to bide.
Wi' ae lang stride he passed her door,?Nor sign he niver gae nane,?Save pu'in' a sprig o' the rowan tree?To flick on her window pane.
"An' is this to be a' my warnin', Death??I'm fourscore year an' four,?Yet niver a drogue has crossed my lips?Nor a doctor crossed my door."
"I dinna seek to be forcy, wife,?But I hinna a meenute to tyne,?An' ye see ye're due for a transfer noo?To the Session books frae mine."
"At ilka cryin' I'm handy wife,?Wi' herbs I hae trokit awa',?An' weel ye may dae's a gude turnie, lad,?That's dune ye ane or twa!"
"At the hin'er en' Fair Hornie then!?Fair Hornie lat it be!?An' Govy-dick! ye can tak your pick?O' the ways fowk chance to dee!"
He rattled them owre till weel on fowre?An' the cock gae signs o' life,?On ilka ill he spak' his fillBut?nane o' them pleased the wife.
"Wi' siccan a ch'ice ye're unco nice!?Hoots! came awa woman!" says Death,?"Gin ye canna wale ane o' the fancy kin's,?What