Epitaph On Holy Willie.

    Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
        Takes up its last abode;
    His saul has 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;
    Nae wonder he's as black's the grun,
        Observe wha's standing wi' him.

    Your brunstane devilship I see,
        Has got him there before ye;
    But hand your nine-tail cat a wee,
        Till ance you've heard my story.

    Your pity I will not implore,
        For pity ye hae nane;
    Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er,
        And mercy's day is gaen.

    But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,
        Look something to your credit;
    A coof like him wad stain your name,
        If it were kent ye did it.