Robert Fergusson

To the Tron-Kirk Bell

WANWORDY, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e’er was fram’d to jow or ring,
What gar’d them sic in steeple hing
        They ken themsel’,
But weel wat I they couldna bring
        War sounds frae hell.

What de’il are ye? that I should bann,
Your neither kin to pat nor pan;
Nor ugly pig, nor maister-cann,
        But weel may gie
Mair pleasure to the ear o’ man
        Than stroke o’ thee.	

Fleece merchants may look bald, I trow,
Since a’ Auld Reikie’s childer now
Maun stap their lugs wi’ teats o’ woo,
        Thy sound to bang,
And keep it frae gawn thro’ and thro’
        Wi’ jarrin’ twang.

Your noisy tongue, there’s nae abideint:
Like scaulding wife’s, there is nae guideint:
Whan I’m ’bout ony bus’ness eident,
        It’s sair to thole;
To deave me, than, ye tak’ a pride in’t
        Wi’ senseless knoll.

O! war I provost o’ the town,
I swear by a’ the pow’rs aboon,
I’d bring ye wi’ a reesle down;
        Nor shud you think
(Sae sair I’d crack and clour your crown)
        Again to clink.

For whan I’ve toom’d the muckle cap,
An’ fain wad fa’ owr in a nap,
Troth I could doze as soun’s a tap,
        Wer’t na for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap
        To waukin me.

I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick;
Quo he, ‘this bell o’ mine’s a trick,
A wylie piece o’ politic,
        A cunnin’ snare
To trap fock in a cloven stick,
        Ere they’re aware.

‘As lang’s my dautit bell hings there,
A’ body at the kirk will skair;
Quo they, gif he that preaches there
        Like it can wound,
We douna care a single hair
        For joyfu’ sound.’

If magistrates wi’ me wud’ gree,
For ay tongue-tackit shud you be,
Nor fleg wi’ anti-melody
        Sic honest fock,
Whase lugs were never made to dree
        Thy doolfu’ shock.

But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they wud scunner at your knell,
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,
        And than, I trow,
The by-word hads, ‘the de’il himsel’
        Has got his due.’