Ember

Welcome to the tower or at least, the part of it that lives in words. Here, the bells finally get to speak for themselves: loud, opinionated, and never shy about roasting the ringers who dare to pull their ropes. If you’ve ever wondered what bells really think during a night of change‑ringing the dodges, the missed places, the heroic saves, the glorious chaos this is their side of the story. A little truth, a little mischief, and a whole lot of bronze‑bound attitude

Up in the tower we sway and swing, 
waiting for you lot to try to ring. 
We’re proud old bells with bronze‑bound sass,
and we judge you hard — don’t think we don’t, lass.

We hear you climbing, clatter and groan, 
someone whining, “I’ve left my phone!”
Another panics, “What’s the method today?” 
and we mutter, Oh brilliant. They’re guessing again. Yay.

Rounds begin — all neat, all sweet, 
a rare moment where you’re not off‑beat. 
But rounds are easy, calm and mild — 
the chaos starts when the methods get wild.

“Go Grandsire!” you shout with flair, 
and instantly someone forgets where. 
The treble hunts like a frantic bee, 
the tenor booms, “Don’t look at me!” 
The middle bells dodge left and right, 
while one bell hisses, “Hold your line, alright?!”

Handstroke, backstroke — rhythm tight, 
until someone pulls with all their might 
and sends the row into disarray. 
We scream in bronze, Not AGAIN today.

We swap our places, up and down, 
our voices tumbling through the town. 
We feel each fumble, each sloppy dodge, 
each ringer pretending they’re “still in charge.”

One bell snaps, “You missed your place!” 
another groans, “This is a disgrace.” 
A deeper voice rumbles, “I’m huge, be kind,” 
while the treble shrieks, “I’m losing my mind!”

The conductor’s shouting, “Keep it tight!” 
and we shout back, “We’re ringing — YOU get it right!” 
We thrum, we drone, we shake the air, 
we make the whole town stop and stare.

But truth be told, we love the ride, 
the patterned chaos, side to side. 
We love the methods, twists and turns,
the way the tower hums and burns.

Plain Bob, Grandsire, Stedman’s call — 
we’ve rung them long, we’ve rung them all. 
Dodges crisp, places clean, 
a perfect ringing machine.

You’re pale and sweating, halfway through, 
and we’re thinking, Look at them — they finally knew
their dodges, places, hunts, and lines. 
We ring out proudly, rich and fine.

The final change — the last big shout — 
and we blast our triumph inside and out. 
A tower‑shaking, bronze‑bound roar — 
you stumble out, we want more.

We settle back, smug and bright, 
warm metal humming through the night. 
For though you wobble, slip, and groan, 
we’re the ones who truly drone.

We’re the heartbeat of the tower’s spine — 
bells ringing, sharp and fine. 
So come again — we’ll play our part, 
and roast you ringers with all our heart.