The Poetry Corner

The Fee.

By David Rorie M.D.

In the heicht o' the foray Sir Raif got a clour, Sir Raif the regairdless, In battle sae dour. O cleanly the saddle They ca'ed him attour! Then aid for his wounds He did sairly beseech, An' aff to the greenwood In shade o' a beech They hurried auld Simon The kintra-side's leech. Wi' a tow roon' his neck Simon knelt on his knee, An' he saw as he glow'red Wi' the tail o' his e'e That armed men held it Owre bough o' the tree. "Noo, Simon, to heal Is your trade, no' to kill," Quo' Sir Raif, "An' though, mark ye, We dootna your skill, Grup the tow, knaves! If need be Pull up wi' a will!" "But what o' my fee, Noo I ask ye, Sir Raif ?" "Gin I live, Master Simon, I'll wager it's safe! There! Laugh not, ye villains, His neck ye may chafe!" O stanched was the blue blude That ran on the grass, Sae eident was Simon His skill to surpass, Sir Raif was in fair way His foes to harass. An' the fee they gae Simon The tale is aye rife- For fittin' Sir Raif To wield sword i' the strife? 'Twas the greatest e'er gi'en- For they gae him his life!