"He'll hae
misfortunes
great an' sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit till us a'--
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit till us a'--
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
.
.
.
Song--Rantin', Rovin' Robin^1
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns. ]
Tune--"Daintie Davie. "
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Chor. --Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin', rovin', rantin', rovin',
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin', rovin', Robin!
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun^2,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
[Footnote 2: January 25, 1759, the date of my
bardship's vital existence. --R. B. ]
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' scho, "Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we'll ca' him Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit till us a'--
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee! Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"Guid faith," quo', scho, "I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur
So blessins on thee! Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
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.
[Footnote 1: Ruisseaux is French for rivulets
or "burns," a translation of his name. ]
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!
Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock
Author Of The Gospel Recovered. --August, 1785
O Gowdie, terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an' looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
Song--Rantin', Rovin' Robin^1
[Footnote 1: Not published by Burns. ]
Tune--"Daintie Davie. "
There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Chor. --Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin', rovin', rantin', rovin',
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin', rovin', Robin!
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun^2,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
Robin was, &c.
[Footnote 2: January 25, 1759, the date of my
bardship's vital existence. --R. B. ]
The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' scho, "Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof:
I think we'll ca' him Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"He'll hae misfortunes great an' sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a',
He'll be a credit till us a'--
We'll a' be proud o' Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee! Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
"Guid faith," quo', scho, "I doubt you gar
The bonie lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur
So blessins on thee! Robin. "
Robin was, &c.
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.
[Footnote 1: Ruisseaux is French for rivulets
or "burns," a translation of his name. ]
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!
Epistle To John Goldie, In Kilmarnock
Author Of The Gospel Recovered. --August, 1785
O Gowdie, terror o' the whigs,
Dread o' blackcoats and rev'rend wigs!
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
Girns an' looks back,
Wishing the ten Egyptian plagues
May seize you quick.
