Here Holy Willie’s sairworn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saulhas ta’en some other way,
I fear, the left-hand road.
Stop! there he is, as sure’s a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Naewonder he’s as black’s the grun,
Observe wha’sstanding wi’him.
Your brunstanedevilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haudyour nine-tail cat a wee,
Tillanceyou’ve heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gi’en him o’er,
And mercy’s day is gane.
Buthear me, Sir, deilas ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A cooflike him wadstain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.