As ever doctor patient gart lick, ,

To cure his ails; Whether you hae the head or heart-ake, :

It ay prevails.

Ye tipplers, open a' your poses:
Ye, wha are fash'd wi' plouky noses,
Fling o'er your craig sufficient doses;

You'll thole a hunder, To fleg awa your simmer roses,

And naething under.

Whan big as burns the gutters ring",
Gin ye hae oatcht a droukit skin,
To lucky Middlemist's loup in,

And sit fu' snug
Owre oysters and a dram o'gin,

Or haddock lug


Whan auld Saunt Giles, at eight o'clock, Gars merchant lowns their shoppies lock, There we adjourn wi' hearty fouk

To birle our bodles, And get wharewi' to crack our joke,

And clear our noddles.

When Phoebus did his winnocks steek,

How aften at that ingle cheek
Did I my frosty 'fingers beek,

And prie good fare? I trow there was nae hame to seek,

Whan steghin there.

While glaikit fools, owre rife o' cash
Pamper their wames wi' fousom trash,
I think a chiel may gayly pass,

He's na ill bodden,
That gusts his gab wi' oyster sauce,

An hen weel sodden.


At Musselbrough, and eke Newhaven,
The fisher wives will get top livin
Whan lads gang out on Sunday's even

To treat their joes,
And tak o' fat pandores a prievin,

Or mussel brose.

Then, sometimes, ere they flit their doup,
They'll aiblins a' their siller coup
For liquor clear, frae cutty stoup,

To weet their wizzen,
And swallow owre a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.

A' ye

wha canna stand sae sicker, Whan lwice ye’ve toom'd the big-ars d bicker, Mix caller oysters wi' your liquor,

And I'm your debtor, If greedy priest or drowthy vicar

Will thole it better,


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. VOL. II.


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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, Qr curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Wad be right laith, Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

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