Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux^[1]

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 fash'd him,

Except the moment that they crush'd him;

For sune as chance or fate had hush'd 'em

Tho' e'er sae short.

Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash'd '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 then!

[1] Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or 'burns,' a translation of his name.