The Quack Doctor

by Richard Watson

THE QUACK DOCTOR
A DIALOGUE ON PAY DAY

Mᴀᴛᴛ. How is ta? Thou's a stranger, Bill.
Bɪʟʟ. Aw's fresh! an aw hope thou's sae thysel;
         Here's my box, thi' pipe come fill,
             And sit ta down
         An rist ti' legs. Az war'nt' tha will
             Hae been at town?
 
Mᴀᴛᴛ. Wy, man! I went to draw my pay,
         An aw hae been amused to-day,—
         Disgusted, tu, as aw ma' say,
             Wi' a quack doctor
         Et aw left when he com away,
             On wid ez lecture.

         He said he had some med'cine plann'd,
         Et wad cure aught he took in hand;
         A g'yapen crewd did round him stand
             Cocking their lugs,
         Riddy to swelly ez nonsense and
             Ez filthy drugs.

         An then to prove ez statement true,
         An show he t'human system knew,
         He'd diagrams exposed to view,
             Et queerest forms;
         Boxes o' pills, an bottles tu
             Fill'd wi' lang worms.

Bɪʟʟ. It's t'brass sec men are efter, Matt,
         They knaw reet weel whar t'money's at;
         To fleece fond folk, and sell thir ket.
             Is all thir trade;
         Aw stopt thi' t'yal,— come tell ma what
             T'aud rascal said.

Mᴀᴛᴛ. Wy, man, he then began to state,
         How t'bluid frae t'heart did circilate,
         An Marcury, how t'wad operate
             On t'human frame;
         He said et bowels et wad inflate,
             An t'narves inflame.

         "Ye come," he said, "o' doctor's wills,
         An swelly up their mineral pills;
         An then they mak ye up lang bills
             Beyond all sense;
         While aw'll cure ye o' all yer ills
             For eighteen-pence."

         To cure t'piles he said he'd power,
         An convulsions ev half an hour.
         An cleanse t'bluid when it was impure;
             Likewise engage
         Consumptions an fevers to cure,
             Ev thir last stage.

         Fistulas, fits, an inflammations,
         Lumbago, scurvy, palpitations.
         Gravel, scrofula, ulcerations.
             Coughs, colics, spasms,
         Gout, swelled legs, excoriations.
             An rheumatisms.

         Tic-doloreux, dimness o' t'seet,
         Debility, cancers, corns o' t'feet,
         Worms, cholera, tuthwark, gleet.
             An pains o' t'chist;
         An other things he did repeat,
             Et haw hae mist.

         He said to folk he had been saught,
         Et had to t'brink o't' gr'yav been braught;
         An his black drops an pills had wraught
             A perfect cure.
         When t'doctors all round had thaught
             All hope was ow're.

         An man! to see em mak good wage,
         Frae folk o' this enleetn'd age.
         It really put me ev a rage.
             To tell tha truth;
         Aw could hae knock'd em reet of t'stage,
             An stopp'd ez mouth.

Bɪʟʟ. Sec men can talk t'h'yal length o' t'day,
         They speak ev sec an oilen way,
         Sae glib o' tongue, an what they say
             Appears sae plain,
         Et folk are apt to think et they
             Are clever men.

         O' t'docter's craft what hae they seen
         Et they can cure folk sae cleen?
         Like thou an me they will be green,
             Ev sec like matters;
         Doctors et hez to t'college been,
             Ell be thir betters.

         It stands wi' re'sen, if they'd power
         Just half o't illnesses to cure.
         They needn't travel t'country ower;
             They could sit down,
         Wi' practice plenty, aw's weel sure,
             Ev ony town.

         Thir tricks yan hardly can describe;
         At better men they jeer and gibe;
         They're just a mean, imposing tribe.
             Aw'll tell tha what,
         Thar isn't yan et sud prescribe
             For our aud cat.

Mᴀᴛᴛ. They're heartless rogues, thar is nae doubt;
         Joe Brown, when he was poorly, saught
         Yan o' thur quacks et gangs about,
             An the base villain
         Near kill'd poor Joe, an fleec'd em out
             O' thirty shilling.

Bɪʟʟ. It's reet folk for thir folly pay;
         Thar's some folk easy led astray,
         Sae daft an ignorant are they,
             An sune deceived.
         Nae matter what a knave may say
             He is believ'd.

         Aw'd rather be ivver sae poor,
         An hunger's sharpest pangs endure,
         Without a farden to procure
             Claes to my back,
         An beg about frae doure to doure.
             Than be a quack.

         Matt. Sec men for ony crimes are fit,
         Et do by fraud thir 'lieven's git;
         But, Bill, I can nae longer sit,
             Aw mun away,
         Aw hae three miles to travel yit,
             An' sae good day.