An' swallow owre a dainty soup,

For fear they gizzen.

A' ye wha canna staun sae sicker,

When twice you've toom'd the big-ars'd bicker, Mix cauler Oysters wi' your liquor,

An' I'm your debtor,

If greedy priest or drouthy vicar

Will thole it better.

BRAID CLAITH.

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

To laurell'd wreath,

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

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

When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O' gude Braid Claith.

Waesucks 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,
When he has done wi' scrapin' wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!

Or to the Meadows, 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,

Would be right laith,

When pacin' wi' a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettled stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's een,
He maunna care for bein' seen

Before he sheath

His body in a scabbard clean

O' gude Braid Claith.

For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, A feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou fu' sair,

An' scauld him baith:

Wooers shou'd aye their travel spare,
Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heeze;
Maks mony kail-worms butterflees;
Gies mony a doctor his degrees,

For little skaith:

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

For, tho' ye had as wise a snout on, As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,

Your judgment fouk wou'd 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,

When lads an' lasses tartan wore,

Saft Music rang on ilka shore,

In hamely weed;

But harmony is now no more,

An' Music dead.

Round her the feather'd choir would wing; Sae bonnily she wont to sing,

An' sleely wake the sleepin' string,

Their sang to lead,

Sweet as the zephyrs o' the Spring:
But now she's dead.

Mourn, ilka nymph, an' ilka swain,
Ilk sunny hill, an' dowie glen;
Let weepin' streams an' Naiads drain
Their fountain-head;

Let echo swell the dolefu' strain,

Sin' Music's dead.

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

Near hill or mead,

On chaunter, or on aiten straw,
Sin' Music's dead.

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

Delight to chaunt their hamely lays,
Sin' Music's dead.

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

An' pibrochs 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 cou'd sweet melody impart,

An' tune the reed,

Wi' sic a slee an' pawky art;

But now he's dead.

Ilk carlin now may grunt an' grane,
Ilk bonnie lassie mak great maen;
Sin' he's awa, I trow, there's nane
Can fill his stead;

The blythest sangster on the plain!
Alack, he's dead!

Now foreign sonnets bear the gree,
An' crabbit, queer variety

O' sounds fresh sprung frae Italy;
A bastard breed!

Unlike that saft-tongued melody,

Which now lies dead.

Cou'd lavrocks, at the dawnin' day,
Cou'd linties, chirmin' fray the spray,
Or todlin' burns, that smoothly play
Owre gowden bed,

Compare wi' "Birks o' Invermay?"
But now they're dead.

O Scotland! that cou'd ance afford
To bang the pith o' Roman sword,
Winna your sons, wi' joint accord,
To battle speed;

An' fight till Music be restor❜d,

Which now lies dead?

HALLOWFAIR.

AT Hallowmas, when nights grow lang,
An' starnies shine fu' clear;
When fouk, the nippin' cauld to bang,
Their winter hap- warms wear;
Near Edinbrough a fair there hauds,
I wat there's nane whase name is,
For strappin' dames an' sturdy lads,
An' cap an' stoup, mair famous
Than it that day.