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 ’emTho’ 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 markTo mak a man;But tell him, he was learn’d and clark,Ye roos’d him then!
Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or “burns,” a translation of his name. ↩