The Speeshalist.

A poem by David Rorie

Saturday Night.

Noo, ye'll no' tak' it ill o' me, Mistress Macqueen,
For ye ken ye are juist a young kimmer,
An' I am a mither that's beerit fourteen,
An' forty year mairrit come simmer;
When ye see your bit bairnie there drawin' up her knees,
Wi' grups in her little interior,
Juist gie her a nip o' a gude yalla cheese,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

The doctor had said that ye shouldna row'r ticht,
Ye should aye gie the wee cratur's belly scope?
Awa' wi' the lang-leggit lum-hattit fricht
Wi' his specks an' his wee widden tellyscope!
What kens he o' littlens? He's nane o' his ain,
If she greets it juist keeps the hoose cheerier,
See! THAT was the wey I did a' my fourteen,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

I tell ye, noo, warkin' fowk canna draw breath,
What wi' sanitries, cruelties, an' bobbies,
An' the doctors would pit ye in fair fear o' death
Wi' their blethers o' German macrobbies!
I've been at their lectures on health an' High Jean,
Gude kens that I niver was wearier!
Use your ain commonsense when ye're treating' your wean,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

Sunday Morning.

She's awa'? Weel, ma wumman, I thocht that mysel',
When I saw your blind doon frae our corner,
An', says I, "I'll juist tak' a step upbye an' tell
Twa or three things its better to warn her."
'Twas the doctor's negleck o'r, the auld nosey-wax!
There's naethin' to dae noo, but beery her,
Tammy Chips mak's a kist here at seeven-an'-sax,
An' ye'll find that there's naethin' superior!

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