HERE Holy Willies 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 sures a gun,
Poor, silly body, see him;
Nae wonder hes as blacks the grun,
Observe whas standing wi him.
Your brunstane devilship, I see,
Has got him there before ye;
But haud your nine-tail cat a wee,
Till ance youve heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye have nane;
Justice, alas! has gien him oer,
And mercys 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.
