ON HOLY WILLIE
I
Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks up its last abode;
His saul has taen some other way—
I fear, the left-hand road.
II
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!
III
Your brunstane Devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye!
But haud your nine-tail-cat a wee,
Till ance you've heard my story.
IV
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.
V
But hear me, Sir, Deil as ye are,
Look something to your credit:
A cuif like him wad stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it!
