Could scarce keep out the wind and weather;
But now it is turned to a hat and feather;
Thy bonnet is blown—the devil knows whither.
Thy shoes on thy feet when thou camest from plough,
Were made of the hide of an old Scots cow;
But now they are turned to a rare Spanish leather,
And decked with roses altogether.
Thy sword at thy [back] was a great black blade,
With a great basket-hilt of iron made;
But now a long rapier doth hang by his side,