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!

THE HOWDIE.

'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.

THE BANE-SETTER.

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'