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!”