To the TRON-KIRK BELL

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Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing, As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring, What gar'd them sie in steeple hing           They ken themsel', But weel wat I they couldna bring           War sounds frae hall. What de'il are ye? that I shud ban, Your neither kith to pat nor pan; Nor uly-pig nor master-cann           But weel may gie Mair pleasure to the ear o' man           Than stroak o' thee. Fleece merchants may look bald, I trow, Since a' Auld Reekie'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: When 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 abooon, I'd bring ye wi' a reefle down;           Nor shud ye 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 found'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 cunnun 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' 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 then, I trow, The by-word hads, "the de'il himsel'           "Has got his due." R. FERGUSSON.