THE QUACK DOCTORS.

Wor laureate may sing for his cash, Of laws, constitution, and proctors, Contented aw'll blair for a dash At the slee understrapping quack doctors, They gob o' their physical skill, Till their jaws yen might swear they wad rive, To prove what's alive they can kill, And what's dead they can suen myek alive. A' ye wi' the glanders snout-full, Repair to each wondrous adviser— For though ye were born a stark fuel, Depend on't, they'll suen myek ye wiser. Their physic, they say, in a trice, Snaps every disease like a towt: But the best on't all is their advice— Ye can get it free gratis for nowt. Wiv a kessle puff'd up to the chin, Went to see yen, a strapping young doxy, He examin'd her lugs and her een, And declar'd her myest dead o' the dropsy. The lassie he therefore wad tap, At which she set up a great yell; When out popp'd a little wee chap Myest as wise as the doctor's awnsel'. Next they teuk him a man, whee for fancies, A' day wad sit silent and sad— He upheld that he'd lost his reet senses, And therefore he surely was mad. But now he gies mony a roar, Of the doctor's great skill to convince— If he wasn't a madman before At least he's been yen ever since. Last, in hobbled gouty Sir Peter, To get of his drugs a good doze— Three days he deep studied his water, Ere he'd his opinion disclose. Then proclaim'd that Sir Peet was ower fat, For the doctor was never mistyen By my faiks! but he curd him o' that— Suen Sir Peet left the warld, skin and byen. Now, he that winn't loyally sing, May he swing like an ass in a tether, Good hilth and long life to the King, To keep us in union together. The heart iv each Briton he leads To rejoice i' the fall o' the quacks— So we'll aye keep the brains i' wor heeds, And we'll ay hae the flesh on wor backs.