The poem
THERE 1 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.
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.
Note 1. Not published by Burns. Note 2. January 25, 1759, the date of my bardship’s vital existence.—R. B.