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!)

Forgot your siller? Hae ye though?
Ye're in a richt forgetfu' mood!
Gie't ye on tick? I ken ye fine?
An' whustle on my fingers, syne!
Lat's see that bottle! Here's your line!
(An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

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

Daylicht Has Mony Een.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Crambo-Clink.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

The Nicht That The Bairnie Cam' Hame.

David Rorie, Simple Poetry

English

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Tam And The Leeches.

I.
Faith, there's a hantle queer complaints
To cheenge puir sinners into saints,
An' mony divers ways o' deein'
That doctors hae a chance o' seein'.
The Babylonian scartit bricks
To tell his doots o' Death's dark tricks,
The Roman kentna hoo 'twas farin'
Across the ferry rowed by Charon,
An' readin' doonwards through the ages
The tale's the same in a' their pages,
Eternal grum'lin' at the load
We hae to bear alang Life's road,
Yet, when we're fairly at the bit,
Awfu', maist awfu sweer to flit,
Praisin' the name o' ony drug
The doctor whispers in oor lug
As guaranteed to cure the evil,
To haud us here an' cheat the Deevil.
For gangrels, croochin' in the strae,
To leave this warld are oft as wae
As the prood laird o' mony an acre,
O...

David Rorie

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 ...

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

Scotch Drink.

    "Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
        That's sinking in despair;
    An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
        That's prest wi' grief an' care;
    There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
        Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
    Till he forgets his loves or debts,
        An' minds his griefs no more."

Solomon's Proverb, xxxi. 6, 7.


    Let other poets raise a fracas
    'Bout vines, an' wines, an' dru'ken Bacchus,
    An' crabbit names and stories wrack us,
        An' grate our lug,
    I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
        In glass or jug.

    O, thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
    Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
    Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
        In glorious faem,
   ...

Robert Burns

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

The Hypochondriac.

I dinna ken what is the maitter wi' Jeams,
He canna get sleepit at nicht for his dreams,
An' aye when he waukens he granes and he screams
Till he fair pits the shakers on me!

Can ye no mak' up somethin' to gie him a sleep?
I'm tellin' ye, doctor, he gars my flesh creep,
Till I'm that fu' o' nerves that the verra least cheep
Noo juist fair pits the shakers on me!

Wi' his meat he was aince a man easy to please,
But last Sabbath he flang the fried ingans an' cheese
That I had for his supper richt into the bleeze,
An' he fair pit the shakers on me!

Then he sat in the ingle an' chowed bogie-roll,
An' read "Jowler's Sermons" an' talked o' his soul,
Faith! conduc' o' that sort's no' easy to thole,
For it fair pits the shakers on me!

He's plent...

David Rorie