The Auld Doctor and other Poems and Songs in Scots | Page 2

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!
THE PAWKY DUKE.
[It is hoped that all Scottish characteristics known to the Southron are here: pawkiness and pride of race; love of the dram; redness of hair; eldership of, and objection to instrumental music in the Kirk; hatred of the Sassenach; inability to see a joke, etc., etc. An undying portrait is thus put on record of the typical Scot of the day.]
There aince was a very pawky duke,?Far kent for his joukery-pawkery,?Wha owned a hoose wi' a gran' outlook,?A gairden an' a rockery.?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?Hoot ay! An' a rockery!?For a bonnet laird wi' a sma' kailyaird?Is naethin' but a mockery!
He dwalt far up a Heelant glen?Where the foamin' flood an' the crag is,?He dined each day on the usquebae?An' he washed it doon wi' haggis.?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?Hoot ay! An' a haggis!?For that's the way that the Heelanters dae?Whaur the foamin' flood an' the crag is!
He wore a sporran an' a dirk,?An' a beard like besom bristles,?He was an elder o' the kirk?And he hated kists o' whistles!?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?An' doon on kists o' whistles!?They're a' reid-heidit fowk up North?Wi' beards like besom bristles!
His hair was reid as ony rose,?His legs was lang an' bony,?He keepit a hoast an' a rubbin'-post?An' a buskit cockernony!?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?An' a buskit cockernony!?Ye ne'er will ken true Heelantmen?Wha'll own they hadna ony!
An' if he met a Sassenach,?Attour in Caledonia,?He gart him lilt in a cotton kilt?Till he took an acute pneumonia!?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?An' a Sassenach wi' pneumonia!?He lat him feel that the Land o' the Leal?'S nae far frae Caledonia!
Then aye afore he socht his bed?He danced the Gillie Callum,?An' wi's Kilmarnock owre his neb?What evil could befall him!?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?What evil could befall him??When he cast his buits an' soopled his cuits?Wi' a gude-gaun Gillie Callum!
But they brocht a joke, they did indeed,?Ae day for his eedification,?An' they needed to trephine his heid?Sae he deed o' the operation!?Hech mon! The pawky duke!?Wae's me for the operation!?For weel I wot this typical Scot?Was a michty loss to the nation!
MACFADDEN AND MACFEE.
[This ballad is of great interest, and, as far as we know, has not hitherto appeared in print. It is certainly not in Child's Collection. It was taken down from the singing of an aged man of 105 years, in Glen Kennaquhair. Internal evidence would tend to show that the incidents recorded in the ballad occurred in the seventeenth century, and that Sir Walter Scott had heard at least one verse of it. The aged singer-now, alas! no more-sang it to the air of "Barbara Allen."]
It was an' aboot the Lammas time,?In sixteen forty-three, sirs,?That there fell oot the awfu' fecht?'Twixt Macfadden an' Macfee, sirs.
Macfadden, wha was gaun to kirk?Upon the morn's morn,?Had washed his kilt an' cleaned his dirk?An' combed his Sabbath sporran.
An' bein' for the time o' year?Remarkably fine weather,?These articles o' dress were laid?To air upon the heather.
Waes me! Macfee, while dandrin' owre?The bonnie braes o' Lorne,?Maun gang an' pit his muckle fit?Upon Macfadden's sporran.
A piece o' carelessness like this?The brichtest heart would sadden,?An' when he saw the caitiff deed?It fair gaed owre Macfadden.
For he was shavin' at the time,?An' when the sicht he saw, sir,?Wi' rage he shook an' nearly took?His neb aff wi' his raazor.
A while he swore and staunched the gore?An' ere Macfee got ae lick,?Macfadden cursed him heid an' heels?In comprehensive Gaelic.
Syne when his breath was a' but gane,?An' when he couldna say more,?He lat a muckle Heelant yell?An' at him wi' his claymore.
What sweeter sound could warrior hear?Unless it was the daddin'?That echoed oot when'er Macfee?Got hame upon Macfadden?
Nae sweeter soond I weel could ween,?Exceppin' it micht be, sirs,?The soond that hurtled oot when'er?Macfadden hit Macfee, sirs.
An awfu' fecht it was to see,?A fecht baith fell an' dour, sirs,?For ere the tuilzie weel began?The glen was fu' o' stour, sirs.
An awfu' fecht, again I say't,?And on each auld clay