Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
Robert Fergusson (17501774)Braid Claith
Y
Wrote in the bonny book of fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim
To laurel’d wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,
In gude Braid Claith.
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
O’ gude Braid Claith.
For he ’s a gowk they ’re sure to geck at,
A chield that ne’er will be respekit
While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit
Wi’ gude Braid Claith.
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.
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl an’ sleek a pickle hair,
Wud be right laith
When pacing wi’ a gawsy air
In gude Braid Claith.
For favour frae a lady’s ein,
He mauna care for being seen
Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean
O’ gude Braid Claith.
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bony mou’ fu’ sair,
An’ scald him baith.
Wooers shou’d ay their travel spare
Without Braid Claith.
Makes mony kail-worms butter-flies,
Gies mony a doctor his degrees
For little skaith:
In short, you may be what you please
Wi’ gude Braid Claith.
As Shakespeare or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk wud hae a doubt on,
I ’ll tak’ my aith,
Till they cou’d see ye wi’ a suit on
O’ gude Braid Claith.