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Poem by Robert Burns


Epitaph on Holy Willie


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 glen 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.

1785

                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Mark Yonder Pomp
  2. By Allan Stream
  3. Theres News, Lasses
  4. Scroggam
  5. The First Psalm


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