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!
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!