Your job I couldna weel refuse,
Tae clear the belfry clean o’ doos,
For I’m in nae guid place tae choose
My feedin’ barrel;
Wide and varied are the chores
A Slater tak’s but whiles he scores
Without a quarrel.
This job has sent me near berserk,
A week o’ murder at the kirk,
A mission mony folk wad shirk
When drawin’ blid;
An’ yet the task had commendation
Worthy o’ ma concentration
I made a bid.
But Ah1 I never yince suspected
That doos a kirk sae disrespected
The feculent substance they collected
Tak’s some believing;’
In this Holy place sae calm
They must hae gorged themsel’s for lang
An’ din some theivin.’
Nae won’er they were loathe tae flit
Frae this dry an’ sheltered bit,
Defyin’ a’ my wiles an’ wit
Tae get them oot;
They nearly had me aff ma heid,
My patience worn tae a thried
Without a doot.
I tried tae fleye them wi’ a flail
Tae grup them by the heid or tail;
These efforts proved tae nae avail,
They clum the higher.
An’ looking’ doon they smirked at me,
Temper an’ frustration et me
As I did tire.
They look’d tae me lik’ folk attack’d
Lik’ tenants wha are always back’d
Wi’ this Rent Restriction act
For their protection;
I tried each ruse that cam’ tae mind;
The pigeons wadna hip nor wynd;
The question struck me lik’ a trudge on;
Was this the loyal type o’ pigeon
That wadna pairt frae his religion,
Or hear o’ union?
Or thocht himself’ a faithful’ member,
Ower mony years, a staunch attender
O’ this dominion.
These thochts were rennin’ thru’ my heid,
As on them a’ I dew a bead,
An’ callously I shot them deid,
Yae end in view;
The bloke that always rings the bell
Need never fear his claes’ll smell
On Sundays noo.