Braid Claith

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote in the bonny book of fame
Let merit nae pretension claim
       To laurel'd wreath,
But hap ye weell, baith back and wame,
       In gude Braid Claith.

They 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,
Whan bienly clad wi' shell fu' braw
       Of gude Braid Claith.

Waesuck for him wha has na feck o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at,
A chield 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' filler broachie in his sark,
       Gangs trigly, faith!
r to the Meadows or the Park,
       In gude Braid Claith.

Weel might ye true, to see them there,
That they to shave you hassits bare,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle hair,
       Wud be right laith,
Whan pacing wi' a gawfy air
       In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettl'd stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's ein,
He mauna care for being seen
       Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean
       Of gude Braid Claith.

For gin he come wi' coat threed-bare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bony mou' fu' fair,
       An' scald him baith.
Wooers shud ay their travel spare
       Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fouk an unco heese,
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flees,
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 wife a snout on
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgement fouk wud hae a doubt on,
       I'll tak my aith,
Till they cou'd see ye wi' a suit on
       Of gude Braid Claith.

R. FERGUSSON