Classic Poem

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.

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
Mair pleasure to the ear o' man
Than stroke o' thee.

Fleece merchants may look baul' 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.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't,
Like scaulding wife's, there is nae guidin't:
Whan I'm 'bout ony bis'ness eident,
It's sair to thole:
To deave me, than, ye tak a pride in't
Wi' senseless knoll.

O! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a' the pow'rs aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down;
Nor shou'd you think
(Sae sair I'd crack an' clour your crown)
Again to clink.

For whan I've toom'd the meikle cap,
And fain wad fa' owr in a nap,
Troth I cou'd doze as soun's a tap,
Wer't na for thee
That gies the tither weary chap
To wauken me.

I dream't ae night I saw Auld Nick;
Quo' he, “This bell o' mine's a trick,
“A wyly piece o' politic,
“A cunnin 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 shou'd ye be,
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,
Or they wou'd 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.”