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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 daddies yett,
  Wha met me but Robin?

Was na Robin bauld,
  Tho I was a cotter,
Playd me sick a trick
  And me the ellers dochter?

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



                      Robert Burns


Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Theres News, Lasses
  2. Scroggam
  3. The Toast
  4. Where are the Joys
  5. My Wifes a Winsome Wee Thing


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