Three towns away a bull-horn blows,

And everyone awake alive,

Or still in bed, but' living, knows

The time is 7.45.

Mornings at eight, a celebration,

Six ways whistled or rung,

Reminds all citizens of elation

At a new pay-day sprung.

Noon! What a noise we make of noon!

The bull, the bell, the blat

Of an old air-raid siren, old loon.

It's twelve, and that is that.

Midnight we also mark with bells,

Twelve long strokes,

And what that slow sounding tells

To lone or dozing folks,

No words can ever simply say.

But somehow we survive.

And bells and bulls bring in next day

At 7.45.