The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots — Story, Setting & Ideas

Tam had a gless that warm'd his cheeks; For as it trickled owre his craigie, He held it wardit aff lumbaigy. It wasna that he liked the dram, 'Twas pure needcessity wi' Tam! But twa years syne-or was it three?- Tam thocht that he was gaun to dee, An' Faith! they've often gar'd me grew By tellin' what I'll tell to you.

III. The early tatties had come in When Tammas's besettin' sin, A love o' a' this warld's gude things An' a' the pleesures eatin' brings, Gar'd him hae sic a bad mischeef It fleggit him ayont belief! Pay-Saturday it was, I mind, An' Jean, intendin' to be kind, Had biled the firstlins o' her yaird (For naethin' else Tam wud hae sair'd), Sae when they cam' frae Jean's clean pat, Altho' they seemed a trifle wat, Tam in his hunger ate a meal That wud hae staw'd the big black Deil, Syne at his cutty had a draw, Syne gantit wi' wide-open jaw, An' aince his heid was on the cod, He sune was in the land o' Nod.

IV. But when the knock had chappit four Tam had to rise an' get attour, For in his bed he couldna' bide He'd sic a steer in his inside! The granes o'm waukent faithfu' Jean. An' then began a bonny scene! A parritch poultice first she tries, Het plates on plates she multiplies, But ilka time his puddens rum'les A' owre the place Tam rows an' tum'les, For men in sic-like situations, Gude kens hae gey sma' stock o' patience! Yet fast the pain grows diabolic, A reg'lar, riving, ragin' colic, A loupin', gowpin', stoondin' pain That gars the sweat hail doon like rain. Whiles Tam gangs dancin' owre the flair, Whiles cheeky-on intil a chair, Whiles some sma' comfort he achieves By brizzin' hard wi' baith his nieves; In a' his toilsome tack o' life Ne'er had he kent sic inward strife, For while he couldna' sit, forbye Like Washington he couldna' lie!

V. Noo, at lang last his guts was rackit Till Tam was bullerin' fair distrackit, An' sune wi' roar succeedin' roar He fosh in a' the fowk neist door, An' ane o' them-auld Girsie Broon- She ran an' brocht the doctor doon, Wha hurried in a' oot o' breath, For Girsie said 'twas life or death! The doctor oxter'd Tam till's bed, Fingert his wame an shook his head; "We who pursue the healing art, See youth commence and age depart, Pills we prescribe and pulses feel, Your systems know from scalp to heel! And here? Potato indigestion, Of that there's not the slightest question, While, what my great experience teaches Is most relief is got from leeches."- "Awa'," yells Tam, "fesh hauf a dizzen! O haste ye, ere I loss my rizzon!" Sae aff gangs wullin' Girsie Broon, To wauk the druggist wast the toon.

VI. Noo, Droggie had an awfu' stock, Tobacco, wreetin' paper, rock, A' kin' o' wersh tongue-twistin' drinks, A' kin' o' Oriental stinks, The best cod liver ile emulsions, Wee poothers that could cure convulsions, Famed Peter Puffer's soothin' syrup, An' stuff to gar canaries chirrup. He'd toothache tinctur's, cures for corns, Pomades to gar hair grow on horns, He'd stuff for healin' beelin' lugs, He'd stuff for suffocatin' bugs, He'd stuff for feshin' up your denners, Against your wull an' a' gude menners, A' kin' o' queer cahoochy goods To suit the system's varyin' moods, Wi' navvies' operatin' peels, Sookers for bairns an' fishin' reels, In fac'-but losh! I'd better stop, The mannie kep' a druggist's shop! An' in his bauchles an' his breeches Cam' grum'lin' doon to get the leeches While, nearly scunnert wi' their squirmin', Aff hirples Girsie wi' the vermin.

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'!

VIII. Whate'er wi' Tam ye chance to crack on, There's ae thing ye maun ne'er gang back on. Freely he'll talk on politics, The weather an' its dirty tricks, On wages an' the price o' coal Or things conneckit wi' the soul, On hoo the meenister's a leear An' medical advice owre dear, But if the crack warks roond to leeches, Puir Tam pits doon his pipe an' retches!

'Twas in a wee bit but-an'-ben She bade when first I kent her, Doon the side roadie by the kirk Whaur Andra was precentor.

An' a' the week he keepit thrang At's wark as village thatcher, Whiles sairly fashed by women folk, Wi' "Hurry up an' catch her!"

Nae books e'er ravel't Tibbie's harns, Nae college lear had reached her, An' a' she kent aboot her job Her ain experience teached her.

To this cauld warld in fifty year She'd fosh near auchteen hunner. Losh keep's! When a' thing's said an' dune, The cratur' was a won'er!

A' gate she'd traivelled day an' nicht, A' kin' o' orra weather Had seen her trampin' on the road, Or trailin' through the heather.

But Time had set her pechin' sair, As on his way he birled; The body startit failin' fast An' gettin' auld an' nirled.

An' syne, to weet the bairnie's heid Owre muckle, whiles, they'd gie her; But noo she's deid-ay, mony a year- An' Andra's sleepin' wi' her.

DAYLICHT HAS MONY EEN.

O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht At e'en when bars are drawn, But can'le licht's a dowie sicht When dwinin' i' the dawn. Yet dawn can bring nae wearier day Than I hae dree'd yestre'en, An' comin' day may licht my way- Daylicht has mony een.

Noo, daylicht's fairly creepin' in, I hear the auld cock craw; Fu' aft I've banned him for his din, An' wauk'nin' o' us a'! But welcome noo's his lichtsome cry Sin' bed-fast I ha'e been, It tells anither nicht's gane by- Daylicht has mony een.

O! bed-fast men are weary men, Laid by frae a' their wark; Hoo thocht can kill ye ne'er will ken Till tholin' 't in the dark. But ere nicht fa's I'll maybe see What yet I hinna seen, A land whaur mirk can never be- Daylicht has mony een.

Oor Jock's gude mither's second man At banes was unco skilly; It cam' by heirskep frae an aunt, Leeb Tod o' Nether Tillie. An' when he thocht to sough awa', He sent for Jock, ay did he, An' wulled him the bane-doctorin', Wi' a' the lave o's smiddy.

A braw doon-settin' 'twas for Jock, An' for a while it paid him, For wi's great muckle nieves like mells He pit in banes wi' smeddum. Ay! mony a bane he snappit in At elbuck, thee, an' shouther; Gin ony wouldna gang his gait, Jock dang them a' to poother.

Noo, smiddy wark's a droothy job, Sae whiles Jock wat his whustle, When wi' a horse-shoe or a bane He'd held some unco tussle. But even though miracklous whiles, It mattered nane whativer, For whaur's the body disna ken A drucken doctor's cliver?

Ae nicht when Jock was gey weel on, An' warslin' wi' some shoein', They brocht a bane case intil him That proved puir Jock's undoin', A cadger wi' an auld cork leg, An' fou as Jock or fouer, Wha swore that o' his lower limb He'd fairly lost the pooer.

Jock fin's the leg, an' shaks his heid, Syne tells the man richt solemn, "Your knee-pan's slippit up your thee Aside your spinal column; But gin ye'll tak a seat owre here, An' lat them haud ye ticht, man, I'se warrant for a quart o' beer I'll quickly hae ye richt, man."

Jock yokit noo wi' rale guid wull To better the condeetion, While Corkie swore he had his leg Ca'd a' to crockaneetion. Jock banned the lamp-"'twas in his een"- An' deaved wi' Corkie's granin', Quo' he, "Gin ye'll pit oot the licht I'll gey sune pit the bane in!"

Oot went the licht, Jock got his grup, He yarkit an' he ruggit, He doobled up puir Corkie's leg, Syne strauchtened it an' tuggit. An' while that baith the twa o' them Were sayin' some orra wordies, Auld Corkie's leg, wi' hauf o's breeks, Cam' clean aff at the hurdies.

Jock swat wi' fear, an' in the dark He crep' attour the smiddy, For, weel-a-wat, he thocht his wark Would land him on the widdy. An' wi' the leg he ran till's hoose, Just half way doon the clachan, His cronies oxterin' Corkie oot, An' nearly deein' o' lauchin'.

But at Jock's door they stude an hour, An' vainly kicked an' knockit, Sin' Jock, in a' the fear o' death, Had got it barred an' lockit. An' 'twas na till the neist forenune They fand the leg, weel hidden, For Jock was oot afore daylicht An' stuck it in the midden.

This feenished Jock, an' efter han' He buckled til his ain wark, For sune a' owre the kintra-side They kent aboot his bane wark, An' hoo a law-wer fleggit Jock At Corkie's instigation, An' gart him pay a five-pun' note By way o' compensation.

Ne sutor ultra crepidam Is gude enough for maist o's, For aye there's wark that's bude to get The better o' the best o's. An' just as doctors canna shoe Or haud a hin' leg stiddy, Ye needa seek for surgery Inside a country smiddy.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen I keppit a tinkler chiel, The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through, He was waesomely doon at the heel; But he made me free o' his company, For he kent that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een, He cam' o' an auncient clan; He gae me gude-day in a freendly way, While he spak me man to man, Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame An' his for kettle an' pan.

"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae, Ye're free o' the road, like me, I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot, Wi' an orra-like weird to dree; An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men', Wi' luck to fix oor fee!

Brithers baith o' the auld high road- Yet the Deil hae General Wade For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step Wi' the weary wark o' his spade, Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo Owre the hills whaur the heroes gaed!"

"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast, Or whither awa' gang ye? Will ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides, For a tastin' o' barley bree? Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again As lang as there's kebbuck to pree.

Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth? Ye needna be langer in doot; Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on, An' I'll get ye a pan to cloot. I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in, An' as freely lat ye oot."

A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow, An' a rag on't fluttered free, While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there, That I'm bathered if I could see, Though I kent my soul was sib to his In a queer free-masonry.

"The wife's a mile on the road afore's, An' the bairnies farther still; I canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk, But I'll borrow the price o' a gill, An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack O' a' that's gude an' ill."

He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne, An' quately winked an e'e; "The road's a bond that we canna deny, An' its linkit you an' me In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk, Whauriver they chance to be!"

On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk, An' he leggit it doon the wind; Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock, Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind! An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's For a' that I can find.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw, An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'. When he sichtit it he dichtit it, An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e- For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast baith snell an' keen, An' the washin' o' the clarty wife Sailed aff the washin' green, An' it landit on the midden-heid, Whaur nae washin' ought to be- An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' it gart the deid leaves loup, An' it set the shoothers heicher yet O' the gaithrin' at the roup; An' stour filled the een o' the unctioneer, Till the cratur' couldna see; An' says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt: "Turn aboot's fair play," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, An' the rein catched the grey mear's tail, An' her heels to save her hin'er en' Gaed lashin' like a flail. An' the haill apotheck lay in spails, As the grey mear warsled free; An' when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o' his cairt: "Wha's seekin' ony spunks?" 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 passed 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 feckless 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 damnable 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 startit 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.

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.

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.