For Dr. L.K. Dawson

He's a merriege guidance cooncillor,
A dominie, a priest.
It's like Jehovah's judgement
Yon forbiddin cry o' "Neist!”

“Wee Jimmy's got the bellyache?
D'ye tak me fur a feel?
Wi half an ee, it's plain tae see,
He disna like the skweel.

“Noo.. Mistress Millar. Come on ben,
Yer braithless, like tae pech?
An sae wid onybody be,
That's five steen overwecht!

“Yer man's bin poorly?
Yon's a shame...
He's hoastin, like a stirk?
Weel — stop his baccy ration,
Gie the siller tae the kirk!

“An ye've bin melancholic?
Faith, ye've surely mair adee ...
Gae hame an scrub the kitchie, lass,
An nae waste time wi me.

“Sen' in the neist.
Nae ye again —
Forsweir the demon drink!
Ye'll niver be a granfaither,
It's later nur ye think.”

Nae pills dispensed, bit muckle sense
A wird, a news, a powk;
Auld-farrant, country doctor,
Half his skill
Is kennin fowk.