BRAID CLAITH.

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If

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.

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.

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,

Whan lads and lasses tartan wore,

Saft Music rang on ilka shore,

In hamely weed;

But Harmony is now no more,

And Music dead.

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་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་་

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC.

Round her 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,
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;

Let weeping streams and Naiads drain

Their fountain head;

Let Echo swell the dolefu' strain,

Sin' 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,

Or chaunter, or on aiten straw,

Sin' Music's dead...

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC.

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,

Sin' 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.

Macgibbon's gane: Ah! waes my heart!

The man in Music maist expert,

Wha could sweet melody impart,

And tune the reed,

Wi' sic a slee and pawky art;

But now he's dead.