Brithers.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen
I keppit a tinkler chiel,
The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,
He was waesomely doon at the heel;
But he made me free o' his company,
For he kent that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een,
He cam' o' an auncient clan;
He gae me gude-day in a freendly way,
While he spak me man to man,
Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame
An' his for kettle an' pan.

"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae,
Ye're free o' the road, like me,
I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot,
Wi' an orra-like weird to dree;
An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men',
Wi' luck to fix oor fee!

Brithers baith o' the auld high road-
Yet the Deil hae General Wade
For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step
Wi' the weary wark o' his spade,
Till the Jew an' the Sassenach lord it noo
Owre the hills whaur the heroes gaed!"

"O, gang ye East," quo' I, "or Wast,
Or whither awa' gang ye?
Will ye come to a hoose whaur a gude man bides,
For a tastin' o' barley bree?
Ye can howk i' the kebbuck an' howk again
As lang as there's kebbuck to pree.

Or seek ye a saxpence to slocken your drooth?
Ye needna be langer in doot;
Ye can hae a bit hurl to help ye on,
An' I'll get ye a pan to cloot.
I'se warrant I'll freely lat ye in,
An' as freely lat ye oot."

A tuft o' the broom was knotted wi' tow,
An' a rag on't fluttered free,
While he shook his heid owre some ferlies there,
That I'm bathered if I could see,
Though I kent my soul was sib to his
In a queer free-masonry.

"The wife's a mile on the road afore's,
An' the bairnies farther still;
I canna keep tryst wi' doctor folk,
But I'll borrow the price o' a gill,
An' I'll pay ye back when we've finished oor tack
O' a' that's gude an' ill."

He spat on the siller an' pooched it syne,
An' quately winked an e'e;
"The road's a bond that we canna deny,
An' its linkit you an' me
In the kindly yoke o' the gaun-about folk,
Whauriver they chance to be!"

On the bowl o's cutty he scartit a spunk,
An' he leggit it doon the wind;
Gin his claes would hae fleggit a bubbly-jock,
Guid Lord! he'd an easy mind!
An' oor forebears maybe were near-hand freen's
For a' that I can find.

David Rorie

David Rorie was a Scottish poet and physician born on October 14, 1867, in Aberdeen, Scotland. He combined his profession as a doctor with his love for Scots language poetry, focusing much of his work on the people and country life of Scotland. Rorie’s work is considered an important contribution to Scottish literature. He passed away on August 18, 1946.

David Rorie

The Hypochondriac.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Lum Hat Wantin' The Croon.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

Human Natur'.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Crambo-Clink.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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The Nicht That The Bairnie Cam' Hame.

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,
An' the win' had a coorse kin' o' sough.
'Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht
Gar't the winnock play flicker wi' flame;
But my supper was "Aff for the doctor at aince!"
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

Noo, I kent there was somethin' o' that sort to be,
An' I'd had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it;
Sae when my gude-mither had tel't me to flee,
Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it.
Wi' a new pair o' buits that was pinchin' like sin,
In a mile I was hirplin' deid lame;
'Twas the warst nicht o' a' that I ever pit in,
That nicht that the bairnie cam' hame.

I'd a gude seeven mile o' a fecht wi' the snaw,<...

David Rorie

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,

David Rorie

The Auld Doctor.

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

Some tinkler wife is in the strae,
Your boots are owre the taps wi' clay
Through wadin' bog an' sklimmin' brae
The besom for to see, O!

Ye ken auld Jock o' Windybarns?
The bull had near ca'ed oot his harns,
His een were blinkin' fu' o' starns,
An' doon they ran for me, O!

There's ae guid wife, we're weel acquaint,
Nae trouble's kent but what she's taen't,
Yet aye she finds some new complaint,
O' which I hae the key, O!

She's had some unco queer mishaps,
Wi' nervish wind and clean collapse,
An' naethin' does her guid but draps-
Guid draps o' barley-bree, O!

I wouldna care a docken blade,...

David Rorie

Human Natur'.

As I gang roon' the kintra-side
Amang the young an' auld,
I marvel at the things I see
An' a' the lees I'm tauld.
There's Mistress-weel, I winna say:
I wadna hurt her pride,-
But speerits hae a guff, gude-wife,
Nae peppermints can hide.

Then there's the carle I said maun bide
In bed or I cam' back,
An' frae the road I saw him fine
Gang dodgin' roond a stack;
I heard him pechin' up the stair
As I cam' in the door-
But Faith! My lad was in his bed
An' ettlin' for to snore.

An' here's a chap that needs a peel,
He chaws it roon' an' roon',
He's narra' i' the swalla', an'
He canna get it doon.
Yet whiles his swalla's wide eneuch,
The muckle ne'er-dae-weel,
Gin it had aye been narra'er
He hadna nott the peel.

David Rorie

The Cynic.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast wi' a smirr o' snaw,
An' it took the doctor's guid lum hat
Richt owre the kirk-yaird wa'.
When he sichtit it he dichtit it,
An' he glowred wi' an angry e'e-
For says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Ye've a gey gude crap," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast baith snell an' keen,
An' the washin' o' the clarty wife
Sailed aff the washin' green,
An' it landit on the midden-heid,
Whaur nae washin' ought to be-
An' says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin' wi' his cairt:
"Weel, hame's aye hame," says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An' it gart the deid leaves loup,
An' it set the shoothers heicher yet
O' the gaithrin' at the roup;
An' stou...

David Rorie

Halloween.[1]

    "Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,
    The simple pleasures of the lowly train;
    To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
    One native charm, than all the gloss of art."

Goldsmith.


    Upon that night, when fairies light
        On Cassilis Downans^[2] dance,
    Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
        On sprightly coursers prance;
    Or for Colean the rout is ta'en,
        Beneath the moon's pale beams;
    There, up the Cove,^[3] to stray an' rove
        Amang the rocks an' streams
        To sport that night.

    Amang the bonnie winding banks
        Where Doon rins, wimplin', clear,
    Where Bruce^[4] ance rul'd the martial ranks,
        An' shook his Carrick spear,

Robert Burns