The Wee Drap.

A poem by David Rorie

He's a muckle man, Sandy, he's mair nor sax fit
A size that's no' handy for wark i' the pit,
But frae a' bad mis-chanters he'd aye keepit free
Excep'in' that nicht he'd a fire in his e'e.

He was lyin' an' holin' at wark at the face,
For the gaffer had gi'en him a gey dirty place,
Sae while i' the gloamin' I sat owre my tea
He lowsed an' cam' hame wi' a fire in his e'e.

Ae wife says "Saut butter," ane "Sugar o' leed,"
An' anither says "Poultice the back o' your heid!"
He first tried them singly an' syne tried a' three,
But sairer an' sairer got Sandy's sair e'e.

Wi's heid in blue flannen (he couldna stan' licht)
I'se warrant he lookit a bonny like sicht,
Till dang near deleerit, as hard's he could flee,
Eck ran to the smiddy for ease till his e'e.

The smith was a billy wha cam' frae the sooth,
An' was awful sair fashed wi' a sutten-doon drooth.
He claimed half a mutchkin as fore-handit fee,
An' syne yokit howkin' in Sandy's sair e'e.

The p'int o' his gully, an' sleeve o' his sark
Was a' the smith's gibbles for surgical wark.
For ae fire extrackit the smith pit in three,
Till Eck was fair rackit wi' pain in his e'e.

At last to the doctor he gangs daft wi' pain,
An' gets a gude sweerin' an' syne some cocaine.
The fire was ta'en oot then, to Sandy's great glee,
An' he spent the neist week wi' a drap in his e'e.

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