Jecky McNab

Ye’ll a’ ken tha story o auld Notre Dame

an tha hunchbeck wha rung tha kirk bell.

They say ‘Quasimodo’ the puir mon was ca’d:

a quare funny name, but tha French is gye odd,

but oniehoo, on wi me tale.

Tha puir love-struck hunchbeck haed croaked-it, ye see,

so they needed a bell-ringer noo.

Tha Bishop sent wurd throo tha streets o Par-ee

“If ye’r able fur ringin, cum strecht here til me

an ah’ll gie ye a fair inner-view”.

They pit owre tha tests in tha belfry itsel

an a wheen o fowk ettled til play;

they pu’ed an they grunted but hadnae tha kneck

or ocht like tha skill o thon doited hunchbeck —

so tha Bishop had ca’ed it a day.

But jist as the auld boy was quattin tha kirk,

this wee mon wi’ nae airms hurpled up.

“Ah’m frae Irelan’,” he tould him, “Ah’m here fur the jab:

thur’s naeb’die rings bells like Wee Jecky McNab —

will ah gie ye a tune jist fur luck?”

Tha Bishop be’d hert-scar’d o turnin’ him doon

in case he micht tak oot a case.

“Dinnae fash,” Jecky toul him, “Ah’ll cum til nae hairm:

Ah’ll no can streck bells wi me haun or me airm —

but ah’ll gie them some dunt wi’ me face”.

Jecky geen him a rin owre ‘Tha Moontins o Mourne’

an ‘Tha Starn o tha Auld Coonty Doon’.

He rung wi his chin an’ he rung wi his neb,

he rung “Danny Boy” jist uisin’ his geb:

an ootby tha French fowk gether’d roon.

Tha dumfoonert Bishop — he’d ne’er seen tha like,

an he kent this cud bring him some fame —

he spat on his loof an he heeled it weel oot.

“Ah’ve nae hauns til shak wi’ — tak houl o me snoot,

an Ah’ll ring ye “Tha Green Gress o Hame”.

But jist as puir Jecky stepp’t up til tha bell

an geen it a dunt wi his heid,

he tuk a quare stummle owre yin o his feet,

he flew oot tha wundy, doon ontil tha street —

an thaur tha puir ringer lay deid.

Tha guid fowk o Paris a’ got a quare gunk

as they luk’d whur tha deid Jecky fell.

“Dae ye ken ocht aboot him, his faimlie or hame?”

The Bishop said sadly, “I jaist kent his name,

but I maun say — his face rung a bell”.