A poem by David Rorie

The wife she was ailin', the doctor was ca'ed,
She was makkin' eneuch din for twa,
While Peter was suppin' his brose at the fire,
No' heedin' the cratur' ava.
"Eh, doctor! My back's fair awa' wi' it noo,
It was rackit the day spreadin' dung;
Hae Peter! Come owre wi' the lamp, like a man,
Till the doctor can look at my tongue!"

But Peter had bade wi' her near forty year,
Fine acquaint wi' her weel-soopled jaw,
Sae he lowsed his tap button for ease till his wame,
Wi' a gant at the wag-at-the-wa'.
"Weel Isie," says he, "an' it's me that should ken,
That's the ae place ye niver hae cramp.
The lamp's bidin' here: if he's seekin' a sicht
O' yer tongue he can pull't to the lamp!"

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Isie.' by David Rorie

comments powered by Disqus