The Kirk Bell
When oor lads gaed ower the tap
It was nine o’ a Sabbath morn.
I felt as my hert wad stap,
And I wished I had ne’er been born;
I wished I had ne’er been born
For I feared baith the foe and mysel’,
Till there fell on my ear forlorn
The jow o’ an auld kirk bell.
For a moment the guns were deid,
Sae I heard it faint and far;
And that bell was ringin’ inside my heid
As I stauchered into the war.
I heard nae ither soun’,
Though the air was a wild stramash,
And oor barrage beat the grun’
Like the crack o’ a cairter’s lash,
Like the sting o’ a lang whup lash;
And ilk breath war a prayer or an aith,
And whistle and drone and crash
Made the pitiless sang o’ death.
But in a’ that deavin’ din
Like the cry o’ the lost in Hell,
I was hearkenin’ to a peacefu’ tüne
In the jow o’ a far-off bell.
I had on my Sabbath claes,
And was steppin’ doucely the gait
To the kirk on the broomy braes;
I was standin’ aside the yett,
Crackin’ aside the yett;
And syne I was singin’ lood
’Mang the lasses snod and blate
Wi’ their roses and southernwood.
I hae nae mind o’ the tex’
For the psalm was the thing for me,
And I gied a gey wheen Huns their paiks
To the tüne o’ auld “Dundee.”
They tell me I feucht like wud,
And I’ve got a medal to shaw,
But in a’ that habble o’ smoke and bluid
My mind was far awa’;
My mind was far awa’
In the peace o’ a simmer glen,
Daunderin’ hame ower the heathery law,
Wi’ twae-three ither men....
But sudden the lift grew red
Ere we wan to the pairtin’ place;
And the next I kenned I was lyin’ in bed
And a Sister washin’ my face.
My faither was stench U.P.;
Nae guid in Rome could he fin’;
But, this war weel ower, I’m gaun back to see
That kirk ahint the line—
That kirk ahint oor line,
And siller the priest I’ll gie
To pray for the sauls o’ the deid langsyne
Whae bigged the steeple for me.
It’s no that I’m chief wi’ the Pape,
But I owe the warld to yon bell;
And the beadle that swung the rape
Will get half a croon for himsel’.
1917