beer
I'll quickly hae ye richt, man."

Jock yokit noo wi' rale guid wull
To better the condeetion,
While Corkie swore he had his leg
Ca'd a' to crockaneetion.
Jock banned the lamp-"'twas in his een"-
An' deaved wi' Corkie's granin',
Quo' he, "Gin ye'll pit oot the licht
I'll gey sune pit the bane in!"

Oot went the licht, Jock got his grup,
He yarkit an' he ruggit,
He doobled up puir Corkie's leg,
Syne strauchtened it an' tuggit.
An' while that baith the twa o' them
Were sayin' some orra wordies,
Auld Corkie's leg, wi' hauf o's breeks,
Cam' clean aff at the hurdies.

Jock swat wi' fear, an' in the dark
He crep' attour the smiddy,
For, weel-a-wat, he thocht his wark
Would land him on the widdy.
An' wi' the leg he ran till's hoose,
Just half way doon the clachan,
His cronies oxterin' Corkie oot,
An' nearly deein' o' lauchin'.

But at Jock's door they stude an hour,
An' vainly kicked an' knockit,
Sin' Jock, in a' the fear o' death,
Had got it barred an' lockit.
An' 'twas na till the neist forenune
They fand the leg, weel hidden,
For Jock was oot afore daylicht
An' stuck it in the midden.

This feenished Jock, an' efter han'
He buckled til his ain wark,
For sune a' owre the kintra-side
They kent aboot his bane wark,
An' hoo a law-wer fleggit Jock
At Corkie's instigation,
An' gart him pay a five-pun' note
By way o' compensation.

Ne sutor ultra crepidam
Is gude enough for maist o's,
For aye there's wark that's bude to get
The better o' the best o's.
An' just as doctors canna shoe
Or haud a hin' leg stiddy,
Ye needa seek for surgery
Inside a country smiddy.

BRITHERS.

'Twas up at the tree near the heid o' the glen
I keppit a tinkler chiel,
The cauld wind whistled his auld duds through,
He was waesomely doon at the heel;
But he made me free o' his company,
For he kent that I wished him weel.

He lookit me fairly 'tween the een,
He cam' o' an auncient clan;
He gae me gude-day in a freendly way,
While he spak me man to man,
Though my gibbles were a' for the human frame
An' his for kettle an' pan.

"Ye're oot i' the warst that the weather can dae,
Ye're free o' the road, like me,
I palmer aboot for kettles to cloot,
Wi' an orra-like weird to dree;
An' oor job's to men' whativer'll men',
Wi' luck to fix oor fee!

Brithers baith o' the auld high road-
Yet the Deil hae General Wade
For learnin's the shauchle instead o' the step
Wi' the weary wark o' his spade,
Till the Jew an' the S