Chapter VII

An' noo, my billies, draw a veil, Till mornin's licht, owre Tam Macphail, Till aince again the doctor cam' To see what cheenge was wrocht in Tam. 'Twas nine o'clock he stapt in-bye, Relieved to hear nae waesome cry. "Well, well, Macphail!" the doctor says, "My treatment's worthy of all praise! I left you-why 'twas like a riot! I see you now, contented, quiet. Far, very far, our knowledge reaches! How did you get on with the leeches?" Tam ne'er replied, but turn'd his back, Wi' tearful een 'twas Jean wha spak, "Eh, Doctor! -Sic an awfu' cure I ne'er saw gi'en to rich or puir, For when we saw the ugsome beasts It gart the herts rise in our breists! But Tam, wha tak's your word for law, Juist swalla'd doon the first pair raw! Yet try's he micht, an' sair he tried, He had to hae the last four fried!" The doctor turn'd him on his heel, An' though puir Tam looked rale no-weel, He couldna trust himsel' to speak, The tears were rinnin' doon his cheek, An' a' that day was sair forfaughen Wi' tryin' to haud himsel' frae lauchin'!