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 door,
Nor sign he niver gae nane,
Save pu'in' a sprig o' the rowan tree
To flick on her window pane.
"An' is this to be a' my warnin', Death?
I'm fourscore year an' four,
Yet niver a drogue has crossed my lips
Nor a doctor crossed my door.
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