THE FEE.

In the heicht o’ the foray
Sir Raif got a clour,
Sir Raif the regairdless,
In battle sae dour. 
O cleanly the saddle
They ca’ed him attour!

Then aid for his wounds
He did sairly beseech,
An’ aff to the greenwood
In shade o’ a beech
They hurried auld Simon
The kintra-side’s leech.

Wi’ a tow roon’ his neck
Simon knelt on his knee,
An’ he saw as he glow’red
Wi’ the tail o’ his e’e
That armed men held it
Owre bough o’ the tree.

“Noo, Simon, to heal
Is your trade, no’ to kill,”
Quo’ Sir Raif, “An’ though, mark ye,
We dootna your skill,
Grup the tow, knaves!  If need be
Pull up wi’ a will!”

“But what o’ my fee,
Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?”
“Gin I live, Master Simon,
I’ll wager it’s safe! 
There!  Laugh not, ye villains,
His neck ye may chafe!”

O stanched was the blue blude
That ran on the grass,
Sae eident was Simon
His skill to surpass,
Sir Raif was in fair way
His foes to harass.

An’ the fee they gae Simon
The tale is aye rife-
For fittin’ Sir Raif
To wield sword i’ the strife? 
’Twas the greatest e’er gi’en-
For they gae him his life!

HERE ABOOTS.

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
An the lave play yap at his heels. 
It’s argy-bargy-awfu’ wark! 
An’ whiles we come to blows
Till a man’s ill-natur’ lappers his sark
As it sypes awa’ frae his nose.

The rizzon o’t’s no’ far to seek,
I’ll tell ye plump an’ plain,
We ken oor neebours’ business best-
The Deil may hae oor ain! 
The wricht’s a billy for settin’ banes,
The meenister deals in pills,
The doctor thinks his gift’s to preach
An’ the pollisman mak’s oor wills!

There’s whiles I think we’re waur than maist,
There’s whiles I dinna ken,
A raw o’ neeps is no’ a’ like
An’ why look for’t in men? 
Sae gin ye get your birse set up
By some dour cankert carle,
Content yersel’!  For min’ it tak’s
A’ kin’s to mak’ a warl’!

DROGGIE.

Yersel’ is’t?  Imphm!  Man that’s bad! 
A kin’ o’ thinness o’ the blude? 
Gaed aff las’ nicht intil a dwam? 
Keep’s a’!  But that’s rale nesty, Tam! 
An’ lossin’ taste noo for the dram? 
(An’ may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Noo!  See the libel!  “Thrice a day
A tablespunefu’ efter food.” 
Drogues is nae better than they’re ca’ed? 
Some drumlie-like?  Losh! ye’re a lad! 
The taste’ll be byordnar’ bad? 
(An’ may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Weel, here’s your mixtur’-auchteen pence,
I’d mak’ it cheaper gin I could. 
For beast or body maist fowk ken
Best’s cheapest at the hin’er en’,
An’ on my drogues ye may depen’. 
(An’ may they dae ye muckle gude!)