Epitaph On Holy Willie

By Robert Burns

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay
Tak's up its last abode;
His soul 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 haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance ye '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 gane.

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.