The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots   By: David Rorie (1867-1946)

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!