Epitaph on Holy Willie / Robert Burns

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.