The Hypochondriac.

A poem by David Rorie

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 plenty o' siller, ye're sure o' your fee,
Just gie him a soondin', an' gin he's to dee,
Come oot wi' the truth-dinna fash for a lee,
It'll no' pit the shakers on me!

What! Juist heepocondry? Nocht wrang wi his chest?
The Deil flee awa' wi' the man for a pest!
To think o' me lossin' sae mony nichts' rest
An' him pittin' the shakers on me!

Ay, though he may rout like the bull in the park,
I'se warrant the morn he's on wi' his sark,
An' aff wi' the rest o' the men till his wark,
An' he'll no' pit the shakers on me!

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