| THE CLINKUM-CLANK o’ Sabbath bells | |
| Noo to the hoastin’ rookery swells, | |
| Noo faintin’ laigh in shady dells, | |
| Sounds far an’ near, | |
| An’ through the simmer kintry tells | 5 |
| Its tale o’ cheer. | |
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| An’ noo, to that melodious play, | |
| A’ deidly awn the quiet sway— | |
| A’ ken their solemn holiday, | |
| Bestial an’ human, | 10 |
| The singin’ lintie on the brae, | |
| The restin’ plou’man. | |
| |
| He, mair than a’ the lave o’ men, | |
| His week completit joys to ken; | |
| Half-dressed, he daunders out an’ in, | 15 |
| Perplext wi’ leisure; | |
| An’ his raxt limbs he’ll rax again | |
| Wi’ painfü’ pleesure. | |
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| The steerin’ mither strang afit | |
| Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit; | 20 |
| Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shüit | |
| To scart upon them, | |
| Or sweeties in their pouch to pit, | |
| Wi’ blessin’s on them. | |
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| The lasses, clean frae tap to taes, | 25 |
| Are busked in crunklin’ underclaes; | |
| The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays, | |
| The nakit shift, | |
| A’ bleached on bonny greens for days, | |
| An’ white’s the drift. | 30 |
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| An’ noo to face the kirkward mile: | |
| The guidman’s hat o’ dacent style, | |
| The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle | |
| As white’s the miller: | |
| A waefü’ peety tae, to spile | 35 |
| The warth o’ siller. | |
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| Our Marg’et, aye sae keen to crack | |
| Douce-stappin’ in the stoury track | |
| Her emeralt goun a’ kiltit back | |
| Frae snawy coats, | 40 |
| White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack | |
| Wi’ Dauvit Groats. | |
| |
| A’ thocht ahint, in runkled breeks, | |
| A’ spiled wi’ lyin’ by for weeks, | |
| The guidman follows closs, an’ cleiks | 45 |
| The sonsie missis; | |
| His sarious face at aince bespeaks | |
| The day that this is. | |
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| And aye an’ while we nearer draw | |
| To whaur the kirkton lies alaw, | 50 |
| Mair neebours, comin’ saft an’ slaw | |
| Frae here an’ there, | |
| The thicker thrang the gate an’ caw | |
| The stour in air. | |
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| But hark! the bells frae nearer clang; | 55 |
| To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang; | |
| An’ see! black coats a’ready thrang | |
| The green kirkyaird; | |
| And at the yett, the chestnuts spang | |
| That brocht the laird. | 60 |
| |
| The solemn elders at the plate | |
| Stand drinkin’ deep the pride o’ state: | |
| The practised hands as gash an’ great | |
| As Lords o’ Session; | |
| The later named, a wee thing blate | 65 |
| In their expression. | |
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| The prentit stanes that mark the deid, | |
| Wi’ lengthened lip, the sarious read; | |
| Syne wag a moraleesin’ heid, | |
| An’ then an’ there | 70 |
| Their hirplin’ practice an’ their creed | |
| Try hard to square. | |
| |
| It’s here our Merren lang has lain, | |
| A wee bewast the table-stane; | |
| An’ yon’s the grave o’ Sandy Blane; | 75 |
| An’ further ower, | |
| The mither’s brithers, dacent men! | |
| Lie a’ the fower. | |
| |
| Here the guidman sall bide awee | |
| To dwall amang the deid; to see | 80 |
| Auld faces clear in fancy’s e’e; | |
| Belike to hear | |
| Auld voices fa’in saft an’ slee | |
| On fancy’s ear. | |
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| Thus, on the day o’ solemn things, | 85 |
| The bell that in the steeple swings | |
| To fauld a scaittered faim’ly rings | |
| Its walcome screed; | |
| An’ just a wee thing nearer brings | |
| The quick an’ deid. | 90 |
| |
| But noo the bell is ringin’ in; | |
| To tak their places, folk begin; | |
| The minister himsel’ will shüne | |
| Be up the gate, | |
| Filled fu’ wi’ clavers about sin | 95 |
| An’ man’s estate. | |
| |
| The tünes are up—French, to be shüre, | |
| The faithfü’ French, an’ twa-three mair; | |
| The auld prezentor, hoastin’ sair, | |
| Wales out the portions, | 100 |
| An’ yirks the tüne into the air | |
| Wi’ queer contortions. | |
| |
| Follows the prayer, the readin’ next, | |
| An’ than the fisslin’ for the text— | |
| The twa-three last to find it, vext | 105 |
| But kind o’ proud; | |
| An’ than the peppermints are raxed, | |
| An’ southernwood. | |
| |
| For noo’s the time whan pows are seen | |
| Nid-noddin’ like a mandareen; | 110 |
| When tenty mithers stap a preen | |
| In sleepin’ weans; | |
| An’ nearly half the parochine | |
| Forget their pains. | |
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| There’s just a waukrif’ twa or three: | 115 |
| Thrawn commentautors sweer to ’gree, | |
| Weans glowrin’ at the bumlin’ bee | |
| On windie-glasses, | |
| Or lads that tak a keek a-glee | |
| At sonsie lasses. | 120 |
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| Himsel’, meanwhile, frae whaur he cocks | |
| An’ bobs belaw the soundin’-box, | |
| The treesures of his words unlocks | |
| Wi’ prodigality, | |
| An’ deals some unco dingin’ knocks | 125 |
| To infidality. | |
| |
| Wi’ sappy unction, hoo he burkes | |
| The hopes o’ men that trust in works, | |
| Expound the fau’ts o’ ither kirks, | |
| An’ shaws the best o’ them | 130 |
| No muckle better than mere Turks, | |
| When a’s confessed o’ them. | |
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| Bethankit! what a bonny creed! | |
| What mair would ony Christian need?— | |
| The braw words rumm’le ower his heid, | 135 |
| Nor steer the sleeper; | |
| And in their restin’ graves, the deid | |
| Sleep aye the deeper. | |
