The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots Part 3

An' the haill apotheck lay in spails, As the grey mear warsled free; An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fas.h.i.+on o' his cairt: "Wha's seekin' ony s.p.u.n.ks?" says he.

THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME.

I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an' tired, A' day I'd been hard at the pleugh; The snaw wi' the dark'nin' was fast dingin' on, An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough.

'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame; But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!"

That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be, An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it; Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee, Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it.

Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin, In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame; 'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

I'd a gude seeven mile o' a fecht wi' the snaw, An the road was near smoort oot wi' drift; While the maister at market had got on the ba', Sae I'd tint my ae chance o' a lift.

When I pa.s.sed the auld inn as I cam' owre the hill, Although I was mebbe to blame, I bude to gang in-bye an' swallow a gill, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

"Gude be thankit!" says I, at the doctor's front door, As I pu'd like mischeef at the bell; But my he'rt gae a dunt at the story that runt O' a hoose-keeper body'd to tell.

The man wasna in? He was at the big hoose?

A sick dwam cam' richt owre my wame.

Hoo the deevil was I to get haud o' him noo, That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame?

The doctor was spendin' the nicht at the laird's, For the leddy, ye see, was expeckin'; A f.e.c.kless bit cratur, weel-meanin' an' a', Though she ne'er got ayont the doo's cleckin'.

It's them that should hae them that hinna eneugh, Fegs, lads, it's a d.a.m.nable shame!

Here's me wi' a dizzen, and aye at the pleugh Sin' that nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!

What was I to dae? I was at my wits' en', For Tibbie the howdie was fou, An' e'en had I got her to traivel the road What use was she mair than the soo?

I was switin' wi' fear though my fingers was cauld, An' my taes they were muckle the same; Man, my feet was that sair I was creepin' twa-fauld That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Three hoors an' a hauf sin' I start.i.t awa', An Deil faurer forrit was I!

Govy-ding! It's nae mows for the heid o' the hoose When the mistress has yokit to cry!

A set o' mis-chanters like what I'd come through The strongest o' spirits would tame, I was ettlin' to greet as I stude in the street That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame!

But a voice that I kent soondit richt in my lug, Frae my he'rt it fair lifted a load As I tells him my story, for wha should he be But the factor's son hame frae abroad.

"It's a brute of a night, but to doctor's my trade, If ye'll have me, my laddie, I'm game!"

An' he druve his ain trap seeven mile through the snaw That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Ay! an' cracked like a pen-gun the hail o' the road An' though I was prooder than ask, When he fand I was grewsin' awa' at his side He filled me near fou frae his flask.

Syne when a' thing was owre an' I gruppit his han'

Says the wife, "We maun gie him the name!"

An' there's aye been a gude word for him i' the hoose Sin' the nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

HUMAN NATUR'.

As I gang roon' the kintra-side Amang the young an' auld, I marvel at the things I see An' a' the lees I'm tauld.

There's Mistress-weel, I winna say: I wadna hurt her pride,- But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife, Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there's the carle I said maun bide In bed or I cam' back, An' frae the road I saw him fine Gang dodgin' roond a stack; I heard him pechin' up the stair As I cam' in the door- But Faith! My lad was in his bed An' ettlin' for to snore.

An' here's a chap that needs a peel, He chaws it roon' an' roon', He's narra' i' the swalla', an'

He canna get it doon.

Yet whiles his swalla's wide eneuch, The muckle ne'er-dae-weel, Gin it had aye been narra'er He hadna nott the peel.

Ye tend them a', baith great an' sma', Frae cradle to the grave, An' add to sorrows o' your ain The tribbles o' the lave, An' yet ye find they're a' the same, When human natur's watched, It's no' ill deeds they haud as wrang- The sin o't 's when they're catched.

ANG-BANG-PANG.

O hae ye heard the latest news O' Mistress Mucklewame?

Her doctor hadna pickit up Her trouble here at hame, Sae they took her tae a speeshalist To fin' oot what was wrang, An' it seems noo a' the bother Has been ang-bang-pang.

Faith, in the marriage market then Her man's had little luck, She's just a muckle creishy lump That waddles like a juck; But the nerves gaun through her body's Been the trouble a' alang, An' its complicated noo, ye see, By ang-bang-pang.

I've aye held oot oor doctor Was a skeely man afore, But I'll never lat the cratur noo A stap inside the door!

A' up an' doon the parish It has made a bonny sang, That he didna ken his neebor's wife Had ang-bang-pang.

They've pit her in hot water baths To lat the body steep, They're feedin' her on tablets Frae the puddens o' a sheep, They're talkin' o' a foreign spaw Upon the continang, They think they'll maybe cure her there O' ang-bang-pang.

There's mony ways o' deein' that Oor faithers didna ken, For ae way foond in "Buchan," noo The doctors gie us ten; But I hope to a' the Pooers abune Auld Death may be owre thrang To come an' smoor my vital spark Wi' ang-bang-pang.

THE SPEESHALIST.

Sat.u.r.day Night.

Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen, For ye ken ye are juist a young kimmer, An' I am a mither that's beerit fourteen, An' forty year mairrit come simmer; When ye see your bit bairnie there drawin' up her knees, Wi' grups in her little interior, Juist gie her a nip o' a gude yalla cheese, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

The doctor had said that ye shouldna row'r ticht, Ye should aye gie the wee cratur's belly scope?

Awa' wi' the lang-leggit lum-hatt.i.t fricht Wi' his specks an' his wee widden tellyscope!

What kens he o' littlens? He's nane o' his ain, If she greets it juist keeps the hoose cheerier, See! THAT was the wey I did a' my fourteen, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

I tell ye, noo, warkin' fowk canna draw breath, What wi' sanitries, cruelties, an' bobbies, An' the doctors would pit ye in fair fear o' death Wi' their blethers o' German macrobbies!

I've been at their lectures on health an' High Jean, Gude kens that I niver was wearier!

Use your ain commonsense when ye're treating' your wean, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

Sunday Morning.

She's awa'? Weel, ma wumman, I thocht that mysel', When I saw your blind doon frae our corner, An', says I, "I'll juist tak' a step upbye an' tell Twa or three things its better to warn her."

'Twas the doctor's negleck o'r, the auld nosey-wax!

There's naethin' to dae noo, but beery her, Tammy Chips mak's a kist here at seeven-an'-sax, An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

ISIE.

The wife she was ailin', the doctor was ca'ed, She was makkin' eneuch din for twa, While Peter was suppin' his brose at the fire, No' heedin' the cratur' ava.

"Eh, doctor! My back's fair awa' wi' it noo, It was rackit the day spreadin' dung; Hae Peter! Come owre wi' the lamp, like a man, Till the doctor can look at my tongue!"

But Peter had bade wi' her near forty year, Fine acquaint wi' her weel-soopled jaw, Sae he lowsed his tap b.u.t.ton for ease till his wame, Wi' a gant at the wag-at-the-wa'.

"Weel Isie," says he, "an' it's me that should ken, That's the ae place ye niver hae cramp.

The lamp's bidin' here: if he's seekin' a sicht O' yer tongue he can pull't to the lamp!"