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　　Epitaph On Holy Willie

　　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 haud 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, deil as ye are,

　　Look something to your credit;

　　A coof like him wad stain your name,

　　If it were kent ye did it. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns