LOUD souns the deep-mouth'd parish bell,
Religion kirkward hies,
John lies in bed and counts each knell,
And thinks tis time tae rise.
But, oh how weak are man's resolves !
His projects ill tae keep,
John thrusts his nose beneath the clothes,
An doses o'er asleep.
Now fairy fancy plays her freaks
Upon his sleep-swell'd brain ;
He dreams—he starts—he mutt'ring speaks,
An waukens wi a grane.
He rubs his een—the clock strikes twelve—
Impell'd by hunger's grup,
Ae mighty effort backs resolve—
He's up—at last he's up !
Hunger appeas'd—his cutty pipe
Employs his time till two,—
An noo he saunters thro the house,
An knows not what to do.
He baits the trap—catches a mouse—
He sports it roun the floor—
He swims it in a water tub—
Gets glorious fun till four !
An now of cats, and mice, an rats,
He tells a thousan tricks,
Till even dullness tires herself,
For hark—the clock strikes six !
Now view him in his easy chair
Recline his pond'rous head ;
Tis eight—now Bessie raiks the fire,
And John must go to bed!
[Semple 57]