For men in sic-like situations,
Gude kens hae gey sma’ stock o’ patience! 
Yet fast the pain grows diabolic,
A reg’lar, riving, ragin’ colic,
A loupin’, gowpin’, stoondin’ pain
That gars the sweat hail doon like rain. 
Whiles Tam gangs dancin’ owre the flair,
Whiles cheeky-on intil a chair,
Whiles some sma’ comfort he achieves
By brizzin’ hard wi’ baith his nieves;
In a’ his toilsome tack o’ life
Ne’er had he kent sic inward strife,
For while he couldna’ sit, forbye
Like Washington he couldna’ lie!

V.
Noo, at lang last his guts was rackit
Till Tam was bullerin’ fair distrackit,
An’ sune wi’ roar succeedin’ roar
He fosh in a’ the fowk neist door,
An’ ane o’ them-auld Girsie Broon-
She ran an’ brocht the doctor doon,
Wha hurried in a’ oot o’ breath,
For Girsie said ’twas life or death! 
The doctor oxter’d Tam till’s bed,
Fingert his wame an shook his head;
“We who pursue the healing art,
See youth commence and age depart,
Pills we prescribe and pulses feel,
Your systems know from scalp to heel! 
And here?  Potato indigestion,
Of that there’s not the slightest question,
While, what my great experience teaches
Is most relief is got from leeches."-
“Awa’,” yells Tam, “fesh hauf a dizzen! 
O haste ye, ere I loss my rizzon!”
Sae aff gangs wullin’ Girsie Broon,
To wauk the druggist wast the toon.

VI. 
Noo, Droggie had an awfu’ stock,
Tobacco, wreetin’ paper, rock,
A’ kin’ o’ wersh tongue-twistin’ drinks,
A’ kin’ o’ Oriental stinks,
The best cod liver ile emulsions,
Wee poothers that could cure convulsions,
Famed Peter Puffer’s soothin’ syrup,
An’ stuff to gar canaries chirrup. 
He’d toothache tinctur’s, cures for corns,
Pomades to gar hair grow on horns,
He’d stuff for healin’ beelin’ lugs,
He’d stuff for suffocatin’ bugs,
He’d stuff for feshin’ up your denners,
Against your wull an’ a’ gude menners,
A’ kin’ o’ queer cahoochy goods
To suit the system’s varyin’ moods,
Wi’ navvies’ operatin’ peels,
Sookers for bairns an’ fishin’ reels,
In fac’-but losh!  I’d better stop,
The mannie kep’ a druggist’s shop! 
An’ in his bauchles an’ his breeches
Cam’ grum’lin’ doon to get the leeches
While, nearly scunnert wi’ their squirmin’,
Aff hirples Girsie wi’ the vermin.

VII. 
An’ noo, my billies, draw a veil,
Till mornin’s licht, owre Tam Macphail,
Till aince again the doctor cam’
To see what cheenge was wrocht in Tam. 
’Twas nine o’clock he stapt in-bye,
Relieved to hear nae waesome cry. 
“Well, well, Macphail!” the doctor says,
“My treatment’s worthy of all praise! 
I left you-why ’twas like a riot! 
I see you now, contented, quiet. 
Far, very far, our knowledge reaches! 
How did you get on with the leeches?”
Tam ne’er replied, but turn’d his back,