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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,
Or curl an' sleek a pickle hair,

Would be right laith,

Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air

In gude Braid Claith.

If ony mettl'd stirrah green
For favour frae a lady's een,
He mauna 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' fou sair,

And scald him baith;

Wooers shou'd ay their travel spare

Without Braid Claith.

Braid Claith lends fock an unco heese,

Makes 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.

For tho' ye had as wise a snout on

As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton, Your judgment fock would hae a doubt on, I'll tak my aith,

Till they could see you wi' a suit on

O'gude Braid Claith.

DEATH

AND

DOCTOR HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

K

DEATH

AND

DOCTOR HORNBOOK.

A TRUE STORY.

SOME books are liés frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd :
Ev'a Ministers they hae been kenn'd,

In holy rapture,

A rousing whid, at times, to vend,

And nail't wi' Scripture.

But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell,

Or Dublin city;

That e'er he nearer comes oursel

'S a muckle pity.

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