THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.
I dinna ken what is the maitter wi' Jeams, He canna get sleepit at nicht for his dreams, An' aye when he waukens he granes and he screams Till he fair pits the shakers on me!
Can ye no mak' up somethin' to gie him a sleep?
I'm tellin' ye, doctor, he gars my flesh creep, Till I'm that fu' o' nerves that the verra least cheep Noo juist fair pits the shakers on me!
Wi' his meat he was aince a man easy to please, But last Sabbath he flang the fried ingans an' cheese That I had for his supper richt into the bleeze, An' he fair pit the shakers on me!
Then he sat in the ingle an' chowed bogie-roll, An' read "Jowler's Sermons" an' talked o' his soul, Faith! conduc' o' that sort's no' easy to thole, For it fair pits the shakers on me!
He's plenty o' siller, ye're sure o' your fee, Just gie him a soondin', an' gin he's to dee, Come oot wi' the truth-dinna fash for a lee, It'll no' pit the shakers on me!
What! Juist heepocondry? Nocht wrang wi his chest?
The Deil flee awa' wi' the man for a pest!
To think o' me lossin' sae mony nichts' rest An' him pittin' the shakers on me!
Ay, though he may rout like the bull in the park, I'se warrant the morn he's on wi' his sark, An' aff wi' the rest o' the men till his wark, An' he'll no' pit the shakers on me!
THE AULD CARLE.
The auld man had a girnin' wife, An' she was aye compleenin', For a' kin' o' orra things The body aye was greenin'.
It's "I'll try this," and "I'll try that,"
At ilka adverteesement, She flang his siller richt an' left An' niver got nae easement.
The carle he led sic a life, The haill thing was a scunner, Sae ae braw day his birse was up, He fairly roondit on her.
"Ye're aye gaun to dee, gude-wife- Fowre nichts I hinna sleepit, Gin it's to be, I wush to peace Ye'd set a day an' keep it!"
Wow! noo there was a tirravee!
An angry wife was she, than!
"An' is it no' my ain affair The day I'm gaun to dee, than!
Aha! 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 rife- For fittin' Sir Raif To wield sword i' the strife?
'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en- For 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 best- The 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!