| |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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 | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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: | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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 | 35 |
| 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 | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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.’ | 60 |
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