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', Wi' a' this graith, Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw 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, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadow, or the Park, In gude Braid Claith. Weel might ye trow, to see them there, Wad be right laith, Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air If In gude Braid Claith. ony mettl'd stirrah green 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 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, 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; Mourn ilka nymph and ilka swain, 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' 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. |