The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots.
by David Rorie.
THE AULD DOCTOR.
O' a' the jobs that sweat the sark Gie me a kintra doctor's wark, Ye ca' awa' frae dawn till dark, Whate'er the weather be, O!
Some tinkler wife is in the strae, Your boots are owre the taps wi' clay Through wadin' bog an' sklimmin' brae The besom for to see, O!
Ye ken auld Jock o' Windybarns?
The bull had near ca'ed oot his harns, His een were blinkin' fu' o' starns, An' doon they ran for me, O!
There's ae guid wife, we're weel acquaint, Nae trouble's kent but what she's taen't, Yet aye she finds some new complaint, O' which I hae the key, O!
She's had some unco queer mishaps, Wi' nervish wind and clean collapse, An' naethin' does her guid but draps- Guid draps o' barley-bree, O!
I wouldna care a docken blade, Gin her accoont she ever paid, But while she gi'es me a' her trade, There's ne'er a word o' fee, O!
Then De'il hae a' thae girnin' wives, There's ne'er a bairn they hae that thrives, It's aye the kink-hoast or the hives That's gaun to gar them dee, O!
Tak' ony job ye like ava!
Tak' trade, the poopit or the law, But gin ye're wise ye'll haud awa'
Frae medical degree, O!
THE CRAMBO-CLINK.
Afore there was law to fleg us a', An' schedule richt frae wrang, The man o' the cave had got the crave For the lichtsome lilt o' sang.
Wife an' strife an' the pride o' life, Woman an' war an' drink; He sang o' them a' at e'enin's fa'
By aid o' the crambo-clink.
When the sharpest flint made the deepest dint, An' the strongest worked his will, He drew his tune frae the burnie's croon An' the whistlin' win' o' the hill.
At the mou' o's cave to pleesure the lave, He was singin' afore he could think, An' the wife in bye hush'd the bairnie's cry Wi' a swatch o' the crambo-clink.
Nae creetic was there wi' superior air For the singer wha daur decry When they saw the sheen o' the makar's een, An' his han' on his axe forbye?
But the nicht grew auld an' he never devaul'd While ane by ane they would slink, Awa' at a rin to their beds o' skin Frae the soun' o' the crambo-clink.
THE LUM HAT WANTIN' THE CROON.
The burn was big wi' spate, An' there cam' tum'lin' doon Tapsalteerie the half o' a gate, Wi' an auld fish-hake an' a great muckle skate, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
The auld wife stude on the bank As they gaed swirlin' roun', She took a gude look an' syne says she: "There's food an' there's firin' gaun to the sea, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!"
Sae she gruppit the branch o' a saugh, An' she kickit aff ane o' her shoon, An' she stuck oot her fit-but it caught in the gate, An' awa' she went wi' the great muckle skate, An' the lum hat wantin' the croon!
She floatit fu' mony a mile, Past cottage an' village an' toon, She'd an awfu' time astride o' the gate, Though it seemed to gree fine wi' the great muckle skate, An' the lum hat wantin' the croon!
A fisher was walkin' the deck, By the licht o' his pipe an' the mune, When he sees an auld body astride o' a gate, Come bobbin' alang in the waves wi' a skate, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
"There's a man overboord!" cries he, "Ye leear!" says she, "I'll droon!
A man on a boord! It's a wife on a gate, It's auld Mistress Mackintosh here wi' a skate, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!"
Was she nippit to death at the Pole?
Has India bakit her broon?
I canna tell that, but whatever her fate, I'll wager ye'll find it was shared by a skate, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
There's a moral attached to my sang, On greed ye should aye gie a froon, When ye think o' the wife that was lost for a gate, An' auld fish-hake an' a great muckle skate, An' a lum hat wantin' the croon!
THE PAWKY DUKE.
[It is hoped that all Scottish characteristics known to the Southron are here: pawkiness and pride of race; love of the dram; redness of hair; eldership of, and objection to instrumental music in the Kirk; hatred of the Sassenach; inability to see a joke, etc., etc. An undying portrait is thus put on record of the typical Scot of the day.]
There aince was a very pawky duke, Far kent for his joukery-pawkery, Wha owned a hoose wi' a gran' outlook, A gairden an' a rockery.
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Hoot ay! An' a rockery!
For a bonnet laird wi' a sma' kailyaird Is naethin' but a mockery!
He dwalt far up a Heelant glen Where the foamin' flood an' the crag is, He dined each day on the usquebae An' he washed it doon wi' haggis.
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Hoot ay! An' a haggis!
For that's the way that the Heelanters dae Whaur the foamin' flood an' the crag is!
He wore a sporran an' a dirk, An' a beard like besom bristles, He was an elder o' the kirk And he hated kists o' whistles!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' doon on kists o' whistles!
They're a' reid-heidit fowk up North Wi' beards like besom bristles!
His hair was reid as ony rose, His legs was lang an' bony, He keepit a hoast an' a rubbin'-post An' a buskit cockernony!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' a buskit cockernony!
Ye ne'er will ken true Heelantmen Wha'll own they hadna ony!
An' if he met a Sassenach, Attour in Caledonia, He gart him lilt in a cotton kilt Till he took an acute pneumonia!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
An' a Sassenach wi' pneumonia!
He lat him feel that the Land o' the Leal 'S nae far frae Caledonia!
Then aye afore he socht his bed He danced the Gillie Callum, An' wi's Kilmarnock owre his neb What evil could befall him!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
What evil could befall him?
When he cast his buits an' soopled his cuits Wi' a gude-gaun Gillie Callum!
But they brocht a joke, they did indeed, Ae day for his eedification, An' they needed to trephine his heid Sae he deed o' the operation!
Hech mon! The pawky duke!
Wae's me for the operation!
For weel I wot this typical Scot Was a michty loss to the nation!