Poem by Robert Burns

Epitaph on Holy Willie

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.

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 glen 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.

1. The Flowery Banks of Cree
2. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
3. Blythe Was She
4. The Banks of Nith (THE THAMES flows proudly to the sea)
5. Farewell to Ballochmyle

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