I had for his supper richt into the bleeze,
An' he fair pit the shakers on me!

Then he sat in the ingle an' chowed bogie-roll,
An' read "Jowler's Sermons" an' talked o' his soul,
Faith! conduc' o' that sort's no' easy to thole,
For it fair pits the shakers on me!

He's plenty o' siller, ye're sure o' your fee,
Just gie him a soondin', an' gin he's to dee,
Come oot wi' the truth-dinna fash for a lee,
It'll no' pit the shakers on me!

What! Juist heepocondry? Nocht wrang wi his chest?
The Deil flee awa' wi' the man for a pest!
To think o' me lossin' sae mony nichts' rest
An' him pittin' the shakers on me!

Ay, though he may rout like the bull in the park,
I'se warrant the morn he's on wi' his sark,
An' aff wi' the rest o' the men till his wark,
An' he'll no' pit the shakers on me!

THE AULD CARLE.

The auld man had a girnin' wife,
An' she was aye compleenin',
For a' kin' o' orra things
The body aye was greenin'.
It's "I'll try this," and "I'll try that,"
At ilka adverteesement,
She flang his siller richt an' left
An' niver got nae easement.

The carle he led sic a life,
The haill thing was a scunner,
Sae ae braw day his birse was up,
He fairly roondit on her.
"Ye're aye gaun to dee, gude-wife-
Fowre nichts I hinna sleepit,
Gin it's to be, I wush to peace
Ye'd set a day an' keep it!"

Wow! noo there was a tirravee!
An angry wife was she, than!
"An' is it no' my ain affair
The day I'm gaun to dee, than!
Aha! ye think ye'll tryst the wricht
An' rid him o' his timmer?
Syne haud anither waddin' wi'
Some feckless, thowless limmer!"

Awyte, but noo she's fu' o' life
She's ta'en anither tack o't!
An' aye that she flees oot on him
His words is at the back o't!
Sae keep your tongue atween your teeth
When ettlin' to be cliver,
Ense ye'll be like the auld carle
An' en' waur aff than iver!

THE FEE.

In the heicht o' the foray
Sir Raif got a clour,
Sir Raif the regairdless,
In battle sae dour.
O cleanly the saddle
They ca'ed him attour!

Then aid for his wounds
He did sairly beseech,
An' aff to the greenwood
In shade o' a beech
They hurried auld Simon
The kintra-side's leech.

Wi' a tow roon' his neck
Simon knelt on his knee,
An' he saw as he glow'red
Wi' the tail o' his e'e
That armed men held it
Owre bough o' the tree.

"Noo, Simon, to heal
Is your trade, no' to kill,"
Quo' Sir Raif, "An' though, mark ye,
We dootna your skill,
Grup the tow, knaves! If need be
Pull up wi' a will!"

"But what o' my fee,
Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?"
"Gin I live, Master Simon,
I'll wager it's safe!
There! Laugh not, ye villains,
His neck ye may chafe!"

O stanched was the blue blude
That ran on the grass,
Sae eident was Simon
His skill to surpass,
Sir Raif was in fair way
His foes to harass.

An' the fee they gae Simon
The tale is aye rife-
For fittin' Sir Raif
To wield sword i' the strife?
'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en-
For they gae him his life!

HERE ABOOTS.

Doon in the placie I hae my hame
We're an ill-daein' pack o' deils,
For ilk ane gangs a gait o' his ain
An the lave play yap at his heels.
It's argy-bargy-awfu' wark!
An' whiles we come to blows
Till a man's ill-natur' lappers his sark
As it sypes awa' frae his nose.

The rizzon o't's no' far to seek,
I'll tell ye plump an' plain,
We ken oor neebours' business best-
The Deil may hae oor ain!
The wricht's a billy for settin' banes,
The meenister deals in pills,
The doctor thinks his gift's to preach
An' the pollisman mak's oor wills!

There's whiles I think we're waur than maist,
There's whiles I dinna ken,
A raw o' neeps is no' a' like
An' why look for't in men?
Sae gin ye get your birse set up
By some dour cankert carle,
Content yersel'! For min' it tak's
A' kin's to mak' a warl'!

DROGGIE.

Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad!
A kin' o' thinness o' the blude?
Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam?
Keep's a'! But that's rale nesty, Tam!
An' lossin' taste noo for the dram?
(An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Noo! See the libel! "Thrice a day
A tablespunefu' efter food."
Drogues is nae better than they're ca'ed?
Some drumlie-like? Losh! ye're a lad!
The taste'll be byordnar' bad?
(An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Weel, here's your mixtur'-auchteen pence,
I'd mak' it cheaper gin I could.
For beast or body maist fowk ken
Best's cheapest at the hin'er en',
An' on my drogues ye may depen'.
(An' may they dae ye muckle gude!)

Forgot your siller? Hae ye though?
Ye're in a richt forgetfu' mood!
Gie't ye on tick? I ken ye fine?
An' whustle on my fingers, syne!
Lat's see that bottle! Here's your line!
(An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

THE WEE DRAP.

He's a muckle man, Sandy, he's mair nor sax fit
A size that's no' handy for wark i' the pit,
But frae a' bad mis-chanters he'd aye keepit free
Excep'in' that nicht he'd a fire in his e'e.

He was lyin' an' holin' at wark at the face,
For the gaffer had gi'en him a gey dirty place,
Sae while i' the gloamin' I sat owre my tea
He lowsed an' cam' hame wi' a fire in his e'e.

Ae wife says "Saut butter," ane "Sugar o' leed,"
 An' anither says "Poultice the back o' your heid!"
He first tried them singly an' syne tried a' three,
But sairer an' sairer got Sandy's sair e'e.

Wi's heid in blue flannen (he couldna stan' licht)
I'se warrant he lookit a bonny like sicht,
Till dang near deleerit, as hard's he could flee,
Eck ran to the smiddy for ease till his e'e.

The smith was a billy wha cam' frae the sooth,
An' was awful sair fashed wi' a sutten-doon drooth.
He claimed half a mutchkin as fore-handit fee,
An' syne yokit howkin' in Sandy's sair e'e.

The p'int o' his gully, an' sleeve o' his sark
Was a' the smith's gibbles for surgical wark.
For ae fire extrackit the smith pit in three,
Till Eck was fair rackit wi' pain in his e'e.

At last to the doctor he gangs daft wi' pain,
An' gets a gude sweerin' an' syne some cocaine.
The fire was ta'en oot then, to Sandy's great glee,
An' he spent the neist week wi' a drap in his e'e.

THE TRICKSTER.

'Twas the turn o' the nicht when a' was quate
An' niver a licht to see,
That Death cam' stappin' the clachan through
As the kirk knock chappit three.

An' even forrit he keepit the road,
Nor lookin' to either side,
But heidin' straucht for the eastmost hoose
Whaur an auld wife used to bide.

Wi' ae lang stride he passed her