William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
To the Tron-Kirk BellRobert Fergusson (17501774)
W
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.’
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.
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.’