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.

HUMAN NATUR'.

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.

ANG-BANG-PANG.

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.

THE SPEESHALIST.

Saturday Night.

Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen,
For ye ken ye are juist a young kimmer,
An' I am a mither that's beerit fourteen,
An' forty year mairrit come simmer;
When ye see your bit bairnie there drawin' up her knees,
Wi' grups in her little interior,
Juist gie her a nip o' a gude yalla cheese,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

The doctor had said that ye shouldna row'r ticht,
Ye should aye gie the wee cratur's belly scope?
Awa' wi' the lang-leggit lum-hattit fricht
Wi' his specks an' his wee widden tellyscope!
What kens he o' littlens? He's nane o' his ain,
If she greets it juist keeps the hoose cheerier,
See! THAT was the wey I did a' my fourteen,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

I tell ye, noo, warkin' fowk canna draw breath,
What wi' sanitries, cruelties, an' bobbies,
An' the doctors would pit ye in fair fear o' death
Wi' their blethers o' German macrobbies!
I've been at their lectures on health an' High Jean,
Gude kens that I niver was wearier!
Use your ain commonsense when ye're treating' your wean,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

Sunday Morning.

She's awa'? Weel, ma wumman, I thocht that mysel',
When I saw your blind doon frae our corner,
An', says I, "I'll juist tak' a step upbye an' tell
Twa or three things its better to warn her."
'Twas the doctor's negleck o'r, the auld nosey-wax!
There's naethin' to dae noo, but beery her,
Tammy Chips mak's a kist here at seeven-an'-sax,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

ISIE.

The wife she was ailin', the doctor was ca'ed,
She was makkin' eneuch din for twa,
While Peter was suppin' his brose at the fire,
No' heedin' the cratur' ava.
"Eh, doctor! My back's fair awa' wi' it noo,
It was rackit the day spreadin' dung;
Hae Peter! Come owre wi' the lamp, like a man,
Till the doctor can look at my tongue!"

But Peter had bade wi' her near forty year,
Fine acquaint wi' her weel-soopled jaw,
Sae he lowsed his tap button for ease till his wame,
Wi' a gant at the wag-at-the-wa'.
"Weel Isie," says he, "an' it's me that should ken,
That's the ae place ye niver hae cramp.
The lamp's bidin' here: if he's seekin' a sicht
O' yer tongue he can pull't to the lamp!"

THE HYPOCHONDRIAC.

I dinna ken what is the maitter wi' Jeams,
He canna get sleepit at nicht for his dreams,
An' aye when he waukens he granes and he screams
Till he fair pits the shakers on me!

Can ye no mak' up somethin' to gie him a sleep?
I'm tellin' ye, doctor, he gars my flesh creep,
Till I'm that fu' o' nerves that the verra least cheep
Noo juist fair pits the shakers on me!

Wi' his meat he was aince a man easy to please,
But last Sabbath he flang the fried ingans an' cheese
That