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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.

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