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,
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 grien
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 thread-bare,
A. feg for him she winna care,

But crook her bonny mou fu' sair,
And scauld him baith:

Wooers should aye their travels spare,
Withoot braid claith.

* A promenade to the south of Edinburgh. + The King's Park-another promenade.

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 would hae a doubt on,
I'll tak my aith,

Till they could 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.-Shakspeare's Twelfth Night.

ON Scotia's plains, in days of yore,

When lads and lasses tartan wore,

Saft Music rang on ilka shore,
In hamely weed;

But Harmony is now no more,
And Music dead.

Round her the feather'd choir would wing;

Sae bonnily she wont to sing,

And sleely wake the sleepin' string,

Their sang to lead,

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

Mourn, ilka nymph, and ilka swain,
Ilk sunny hill and dowie glen;

Let weepin' streams and 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's 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,
And pibrochs screed;

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.

* William Macgibbon was for many years leader of the orchestra of the Gentlemen's Concert at Edinburgh, and was thought to play the music of Correlli, Geminiani, and Handel, with great execution and judgment. His sets of Scotch tunes, with variations and basses, are well known. He composed a set of sonatas or trios for two violins and a bass, which were esteemed good.- William Tytler, in the Transactions of the Scottish Society of Antiquaries, vol. i. He died

in 1756.

Ilk carlin' now may grunt and 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,
And crabbit, queer variety

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

Unlike that saft-tongued melody,
Which now lies dead.

Could lav'rocks, at the dawnin' day,
Could linties, chirmin' frae the spray,
Or todlin' burns, that smoothly play
Owre gowden bed,

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

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

And fight till Music be restored,
Which now lies dead!

HALLOWFAIR.*

AT Hallowmas, when nights grow lang,
And starnies shine fu' clear;
When fouk, the nippin' cauld to bang,
Their winter hap-warms wear;

*A market held in November in the outskirts of Edinburgh.

Near Edinburgh a fair there hauds,
I wat there's nane whase name is,
For strappin' dames and sturdy lads,
And cap and stoup, mair famous
Than it that day.

Upon the tap o' ilka lum

The sun began to keek,

And bade the trig-made maidens come
A sightly joe to seek

At Hallowfair, where browsters rare
Keep gude ale on the gantries,
And dinna scrimp ye o' a skair
O' kebbucks frae their pantries,
Fu' saut that day.

Here country John, in bonnet blue,
And eke his Sunday's claes on,
Rins after Meg wi' rokelay new,
And sappy kisses lays on:

She'll tauntin' say,

Ye silly coof!

Be o' yer gab mair sparin':"

He'll tak' the hint, and creish her loof
Wi' what will buy her fairin',
To chow that day.

Here chapman billies tak their stand,
And show their bonny wallies;

Wow! but they lie fu' gleg aff hand

To trick the silly fallows:

Heh, sirs! what cairds and tinklers come,
And ne'er-do-weel horse-coupers,
And spae-wives fenzying to be dumb,
Wi' a' siclike landloupers,

To thrive that day!

Here Sawny cries, frae Aberdeen,

Come ye to me fa need;

The brawest shanks that e'er were seen

I'll sell ye cheap and guid: