Chapter I: Front Matter

THE AULD DOCTOR AND OTHER POEMS AND SONGS IN SCOTS

BY DAVID RORIE M.D.

NOTE "The Lum Hat wantin' the Croon" is published, with music, by Mr. R. W. Pentland, Edinburgh, and it also appears in The British Students' Song Book along with "The Pawky Duke." This latter first appeared in St. Andrews University Bazaar Book, and is included in Seekers after a City. "Macfadden and Macfee" was contributed to Aberdeen University Alma Mater, and has been reprinted in Alma Mater Anthology. Various of the other verses have appeared in The Edinburgh Medical Journal and The Caledonian Medical Journal. D. R.

Not mine to let the hair grow long, and talk In raptured accents of the Higher Things, Of all the purple Polyanthus bears, And beating wings. (Oh no! Nothing of that sort!)

Ne'er have I languished on the lower slopes Of sweet Parnassus in the thrice-dead years, Chanting in fathoms of the fathomless To kindred ears. (Certainly not! No time for it!)

Nor mine the gift-O, gilded gift and grand! To linger near the murmur of the Nine, To mouth in music of the meaningless, Nay! Never mine! (That's so! Quite!)

But here to han'le the auld crambo-clink On hame-owre themes weel-kent by Galen's tribe, Regairdless o' what ither fowk may think Or ca' the scribe! (Ay! That's aboot it noo!)

CONTENTS

THE AULD DOCTOR THE CRAMBO-CLINK THE LUM HAT WANTIN' THE CROON THE PAWKY DUKE MACFADDEN AND MACFEE TAM AND THE LEECHES THE HOWDIE DAYLICHT HAS MONY EEN THE BANE-SETTER BRITHERS THE CYNIC THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM' HAME HUMAN NATUR' ANG-BANG-PANG THE SPEESHALIST ISIE THE HYPOCHONDRIAC THE AULD CARLE THE FEE HERE ABOOTS DROGGIE THE WEE DRAP THE TRICKSTER

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!

MACFADDEN AND MACFEE.

[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now, alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]

It was an' aboot the Lammas time, In sixteen forty-three, sirs, That there fell oot the awfu' fecht 'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.

Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk Upon the morn's morn, Had washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk An' combed his Sabbath sporran.

An' bein' for the time o' year Remarkably fine weather, These articles o' dress were laid To air upon the heather.

Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre The bonnie braes o' Lorne, Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit Upon Macfadden's sporran.

A piece o' carelessness like this The brichtest heart would sadden, An' when he saw the caitiff deed It fair gaed owre Macfadden.

For he was shavin' at the time, An' when the sicht he saw, sir, Wi' rage he shook an' nearly took His neb aff wi' his raazor.

A while he swore and staunched the gore An' ere Macfee got ae lick, Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels In comprehensive Gaelic.

Syne when his breath was a' but gane, An' when he couldna say more, He lat a muckle Heelant yell An' at him wi' his claymore.

What sweeter sound could warrior hear Unless it was the daddin' That echoed oot when'er Macfee Got hame upon Macfadden?

Nae sweeter soond I weel could ween, Exceppin' it micht be, sirs, The soond that hurtled oot when'er Macfadden hit Macfee, sirs.

An awfu' fecht it was to see, A fecht baith fell an' dour, sirs, For ere the tuilzie weel began The glen was fu' o' stour, sirs.

An awfu' fecht, again I say't, And on each auld clay biggin', The freends o' baith, like hoodie craws, Were roostin' on the riggin'.

And aye they buckled till't wi' birr; In combat sair an' grievous, They glanced like lightnin' up Strathyre An' thundered doon Ben Nevis.

Wha won the fecht, or whilk ane lost, Was hid frae mortal e'e, sirs, Nane saw the fearsome end o' baith Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.

But still they say, at break o' day, Upon the braes o' Lorne, Ye'll hear the ghaistly rustlin' o' Macfadden's Sabbath sporran.

TAM AND THE LEECHES.

I. Faith, there's a hantle queer complaints To cheenge puir sinners into saints, An' mony divers ways o' deein' That doctors hae a chance o' seein'. The Babylonian scartit bricks To tell his doots o' Death's dark tricks, The Roman kentna hoo 'twas farin' Across the ferry rowed by Charon, An' readin' doonwards through the ages The tale's the same in a' their pages, Eternal grum'lin' at the load We hae to bear alang Life's road, Yet, when we're fairly at the bit, Awfu', maist awfu sweer to flit, Praisin' the name o' ony drug The doctor whispers in oor lug As guaranteed to cure the evil, To haud us here an' cheat the Deevil. For gangrels, croochin' in the strae, To leave this warld are oft as wae As the prood laird o' mony an acre, O' temporal things a keen partaker.