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.
Ye tend them a', baith great an' sma',
Frae cradle to the grave,
An' add to sorrows o' your ain
The tribbles o' the lave,
An' yet ye find they're a' the same,
When human natur's watched,
It's no' ill deeds they haud as wrang-
The sin o't 's when they're catched.
ANG-BANG-PANG.
O hae ye heard the latest news
O' Mistress Mucklewame?
Her doctor hadna pickit up
Her trouble here at hame,
Sae they took her tae a speeshalist
To fin' oot what was wrang,
An' it seems noo a' the bother
Has been ang-bang-pang.
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.