The poem
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.