A poem by David Rorie

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.

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