Poem by Robert Burns

* * *

  ROBIN shure in hairst,
    I shure wi’ him;
  Fient a heuk had I,
    Yet I stack by him.

I gaed up to Dunse,
  To warp a wab o’ plaiden;
At his daddie’s yett,
  Wha met me but Robin?

Was na Robin bauld,
  Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sick a trick
  And me the eller’s dochter?

Robin promis’d me
  A’ my winter vittle;
Fient haet he had but three
  Goose feathers and a whittle.

1. There’s News, Lasses
2. Scroggam
3. The Toast
4. Where are the Joys
5. My Wife’s a Winsome Wee Thing

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