BRAID CLAITH.

YE wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i' the bonny book o' Fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurell'd wreath,

But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In gude Braid Claith.

He that some ells o' this may fa',
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa,

Wi' a' this graith,

Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has nae feck o't! For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at, A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit

While he draws breath,

Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi' gude Braid Claith.

On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
Whan he has done wi' scrapin wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadow, or the Park,

In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Wad be right laith,

Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

For favour frae a lady's een,

He maunna care for being seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat thread-bare,

A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou' fu' sair,

And scald him baith.

Wooers should

ay

their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese,
Maks mony kail-worms butterflies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees

For little skaith:

In short, you may be what you please Wi' gude Braid Claith.

For thof ye had as wise a snout on
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wad hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,

Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on

O' gude Braid Claith.

I i

ELEGY,

On the DEATH of SCOTS MUSIC.

Mark it Cæsario; it is old and plain,

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chant it.

SHAKESPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.

ON Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft Music rang on ilka shore,

In hamely weed;

But Harmony is now no more,

And Music dead.

Round her the feather'd choir wad wing,

Sae bonnily she wont to sing,

And sleely wake the sleeping string,

Their sang to lead,

Sweet as the zephyrs of the spring;
But now she's dead.

Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain, sunny hill and dowie glen;

Ilk

Let weeping streams and Naiads drain

Their fountain head;

Let Echo swell the dolefu' strain,

Since Music's dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca'
The grey-hair'd Winter's fogs awa',
Naebody then is heard to blaw,

Near hill or mead,

On chaunter, or on aiten straw,

Since Music's dead.

Nae lasses now, on simmer days,
Will lilt at bleaching o' their claes;
Nae herds on Yarrow's bonny braes,
Or banks o' Tweed,

Delight to chant their hameil lays,

Since Music's dead.

At gloamin now the bagpipe's dumb,
Whan weary owsen hameward come;
Sae sweetly as it wont to bum,

And pibrachs skreed ;

We never hear its warlike hum;

For Music's dead.