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 ye've heard my story.
Your pity I will not implore,
For pity ye hae 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.
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS.
"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"—
MILTON.
O Thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,
Closed under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far:
An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.