 | The Poems of 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 coudna bring
War sounds frae hell.
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 coudna bring
War sounds frae hell.
What de'il are ye? that I shud ban,
Your neither kin to pat nor pan;
Not uly pig, nor master-cann
But weel may gie
Mair pleasure to the ear o' man
Than stroak o' thee.
Your neither kin to pat nor pan;
Not uly pig, nor master-cann
But weel may gie
Mair pleasure to the ear o' man
Than stroak o' thee.
98
Fleece merchants may look bald, I trow,
Sin 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.
Sin 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.
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.
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 wud fa' owr in a nap,
Troth I cud doze as sound's a tap,
Wer't na for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap
To waukin me.
An' fain wud fa' owr in a nap,
Troth I cud doze as sound'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.
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.
99
“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.”
“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' antimelody
Sic honest fock,
Whase lugs were never made to dree
Thy doolfu' shock.
For ay tongue-tackit shud you be,
Nor fleg wi' antimelody
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.”
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.”
| The Poems of Robert Fergusson | |