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 sur'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.