On Sabbath-days the barber spark, Gangs trigly faith! Or to the Meadow, or the Park, In gude Braid Claith, Weel might ye trow, to see them there. Would be right laith, Whan pacing wi' a gawsy air In gude Braid Claith. If ony mettl'd stirrah green Before he sheath His body in a scabbard clean O'gude Braid Claith, For, gin he come wi' coat thread-bare, 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. SOME books are liés frae end to end, In holy rapture, A rousing whid, at times, to vend, And nail't wi' Scripture. But this that I am gaun to tell, Or Dublin city; That e'er he nearer comes oursel 'S a muckle pity. |