David Rorie M.D.

O hae ye heard the latest news O' Mistress Mucklewame? Her doctor hadna pickit up

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen I keppit a tinkler chiel, The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,

O! can'le licht's baith braw and bricht At e'en when bars are drawn, But can'le licht's a dowie sicht

Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad! A kin' o' thinness o' the blude? Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam?

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

As I gang roon' the kintra-side Amang the young an' auld, I marvel at the things I see

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,

[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,

Not mine to let the hair grow long, and talk In raptured accents of the Higher Things, Of all the purple Polyanthus bears,

I. Faith, there's a hantle queer complaints To cheenge puir sinners into saints,

The auld man had a girnin' wife, An' she was aye compleenin', For a' kin' o' orra things

O' a' the jobs that sweat the sark Gie me a kintra doctor's wark, Ye ca' awa' frae dawn till dark,

Oor Jock's gude mither's second man At banes was unco skilly; It cam' by heirskep frae an aunt,

Afore there was law to fleg us a', An' schedule richt frae wrang, The man o' the cave had got the crave

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast, A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw, An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat

In the heicht o' the foray Sir Raif got a clour, Sir Raif the regairdless,

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

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

The burn was big wi' spate, An' there cam' tum'lin' doon Tapsalteerie the half o' a gate,

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,

[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,

Saturday Night. Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen, For ye ken ye are juist a young kimmer,

'Twas the turn o' the nicht when a' was quate An' niver a licht to see, That Death cam' stappin' the clachan through

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