Poem by Robert Burns

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux

Now Robin lies in his last lair,
He’ll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair,
Cauld poverty, wi’ hungry stare,
    Nae mair shall fear him;
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care,
    E’er mair come near him.

To tell the truth, they seldom fasht him,
Except the moment that they crusht him;
For sune as chance or fate had husht ‘em,
    Tho’ e’er sae short,
Then wi’ a rhyme or sang he lasht ‘em,
    And thought it sport.

Tho’ he was bred to kintra wark,
And counted was baith wight and stark,
Yet that was never Robin’s mark
    To mak a man;
But tell him he was learn’d and clark,
    Ye roos’d him than!

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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