The poem
NOW Robin 1 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!
Note 1. Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or “burns,” a translation of his name.