7
Tune— Humours o' Glen.
Dear Doctor, he cleaver, and fling of your beaver;
come bleed me, and blister me, do not be slow:
I'm sick, I'm exhausted, my schemes they are blasted
and all driven heel-o'er-head, Doctor Monro.
Be patient dear fellow, you foster your fever;
Pray what's the misfortune that betters you so?
O. Doctor! I'm ruin’d, I’m ruin’d for ever!
my lass forsaken me, Doctor Monro.
I meant to have married, and tasted the pleasures,
the sweets, the enjoyments, in wedlock that flow
But she's taen another, and broken my measures,
and fairly confounded me, Doctor Monro.
I'll bleed and I'll blister you over and over;
I'll master your malady ere that I go:
But raise up your head from below the bed cover,
and give some attention to Doctor Monro.
If Christy had wed you, she would have misled you
and laugh’d at your love with some handsome young beau.
Her conduct will prove it; but how would you love it
I soon would have lam'd her, dear Doctor Monro.
Each year brings a pretty young son, or a daughter;
perhaps you're the father; but how shall ye know
You hug them—her gallant is bursting with laughter
that thought's like to murder me, Doctor Monro.
