66. Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux

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 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.
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