HERE Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Taks 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 ha’d your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance you '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.
But hear me, Sir, de’il as ye are,
Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wou’d stain your name,
If it were kent ye did it.