An' a' the week he keepit thrang At's wark as village thatcher, Whiles sairly fashed by women folk, Wi' "Hurry up an' catch her!"
Nae books e'er ravel't Tibbie's harns, Nae college lear had reached her, An' a' she kent aboot her job Her ain experience teached her.
To this cauld warld in fifty year She'd fosh near auchteen hunner.
Losh keep's! When a' thing's said an' dune, The cratur' was a won'er!
A' gate she'd traivelled day an' nicht, A' kin' o' orra weather Had seen her trampin' on the road, Or trailin' through the heather.
But Time had set her pechin' sair, As on his way he birled; The body startit failin' fast An' gettin' auld an' nirled.
An' syne, to weet the bairnie's heid Owre muckle, whiles, they'd gie her; But noo she's deid-ay, mony a year- An' Andra's sleepin' wi' her.
DAYLICHT HAS MONY EEN.
O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht At e'en when bars are drawn, But can'le licht's a dowie sicht When dwinin' i' the dawn.
Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day Than I hae dree'd yestre'en, An' comin' day may licht my way- Daylicht has mony een.
Noo, daylicht's fairly creepin' in, I hear the auld cock craw; Fu' aft I've banned him for his din, An' wauk'nin' o' us a'!
But welcome noo's his lichtsome cry Sin' bed-fast I ha'e been, It tells anither nicht's gane by- Daylicht has mony een.
O! bed-fast men are weary men, Laid by frae a' their wark; Hoo thocht can kill ye ne'er will ken Till tholin' 't in the dark.
But ere nicht fa's I'll maybe see What yet I hinna seen, A land whaur mirk can never be- Daylicht has mony een.
THE BANE-SETTER.
Oor Jock's gude mither's second man At banes was unco skilly; It cam' by heirskep frae an aunt, Leeb Tod o' Nether Tillie.
An' when he thocht to sough awa', He sent for Jock, ay did he, An' wulled him the bane-doctorin', Wi' a' the lave o's smiddy.
A braw doon-settin' 'twas for Jock, An' for a while it paid him, For wi's great muckle nieves like mells He pit in banes wi' smeddum.
Ay! mony a bane he snappit in At elbuck, thee, an' shouther; Gin ony wouldna gang his gait, Jock dang them a' to poother.
Noo, smiddy wark's a droothy job, Sae whiles Jock wat his whustle, When wi' a horse-shoe or a bane He'd held some unco tussle.
But even though miracklous whiles, It mattered nane whativer, For whaur's the body disna ken A drucken doctor's cliver?
Ae nicht when Jock was gey weel on, An' warslin' wi' some shoein', They brocht a bane case intil him That proved puir Jock's undoin', A cadger wi' an auld cork leg, An' fou as Jock or fouer, Wha swore that o' his lower limb He'd fairly lost the pooer.
Jock fin's the leg, an' shaks his heid, Syne tells the man richt solemn, "Your knee-pan's slippit up your thee Aside your spinal column; But gin ye'll tak a seat owre here, An' lat them haud ye ticht, man, I'se warrant for a quart o' beer I'll quickly hae ye richt, man."
Jock yokit noo wi' rale guid wull To better the condeetion, While Corkie swore he had his leg Ca'd a' to crockaneetion.
Jock banned the lamp-"'twas in his een"- An' deaved wi' Corkie's granin', Quo' he, "Gin ye'll pit oot the licht I'll gey sune pit the bane in!"
Oot went the licht, Jock got his grup, He yarkit an' he ruggit, He doobled up puir Corkie's leg, Syne strauchtened it an' tuggit.
An' while that baith the twa o' them Were sayin' some orra wordies, Auld Corkie's leg, wi' hauf o's breeks, Cam' clean aff at the hurdies.
Jock swat wi' fear, an' in the dark He crep' attour the smiddy, For, weel-a-wat, he thocht his wark Would land him on the widdy.
An' wi' the leg he ran till's hoose, Just half way doon the clachan, His cronies oxterin' Corkie oot, An' nearly deein' o' lauchin'.
But at Jock's door they stude an hour, An' vainly kicked an' knockit, Sin' Jock, in a' the fear o' death, Had got it barred an' lockit.
An' 'twas na till the neist forenune They fand the leg, weel hidden, For Jock was oot afore daylicht An' stuck it in the midden.
This feenished Jock, an' efter han'
He buckled til his ain wark, For sune a' owre the kintra-side They kent aboot his bane wark, An' hoo a law-wer fleggit Jock At Corkie's instigation, An' gart him pay a five-pun' note By way o' compensation.
Ne sutor ultra crepidam Is gude enough for maist o's, For aye there's wark that's bude to get The better o' the best o's.
An' just as doctors canna shoe Or haud a hin' leg stiddy, Ye needa seek for surgery Inside a country smiddy.
BRITHERS.
'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen I keppit a tinkler chiel, The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through, He was waesomely doon at the heel; But he made me free o' his company, For he kent that I wished him weel.
He lookit me fairly 'tween the een, He cam' o' an auncient clan; He gae me gude-day in a freendly way, While he spak me man to man, Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame An' his for kettle an' pan.
"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae, Ye're free o' the road, like me, I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot, Wi' an orra-like weird to dree; An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men', Wi' luck to fix oor fee!
Brithers baith o' the auld high road- Yet the Deil hae General Wade For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step Wi' the weary wark o' his spade, Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo Owre the hills whaur the heroes gaed!"
"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast, Or whither awa' gang ye?
Will ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides, For a tastin' o' barley bree?
Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again As lang as there's kebbuck to pree.
Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth?
Ye needna be langer in doot; Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on, An' I'll get ye a pan to cloot.
I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in, An' as freely lat ye oot."
A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow, An' a rag on't fluttered free, While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there, That I'm bathered if I could see, Though I kent my soul was sib to his In a queer free-masonry.
"The wife's a mile on the road afore's, An' the bairnies farther still; I canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk, But I'll borrow the price o' a gill, An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack O' a' that's gude an' ill."
He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne, An' quately winked an e'e; "The road's a bond that we canna deny, An' its linkit you an' me In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk, Whauriver they chance to be!"
On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk, An' he leggit it doon the wind; Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock, Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind!
An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's For a' that I can find.
THE CYNIC.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw, An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'.
When he sichtit it he dichtit it, An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e- For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast baith snell an' keen, An' the washin' o' the clarty wife Sailed aff the washin' green, An' it landit on the midden-heid, Whaur nae washin' ought to be- An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' it gart the deid leaves loup, An' it set the shoothers heicher yet O' the gaithrin' at the roup; An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer, Till the cratur' couldna see; An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Turn aboot's fair play," says he.
Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' the rein catched the grey mear's tail, An' her heels to save her hin'er en'
Gaed lashin' like a flail.