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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.

     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!
[1]

Ruisseaux is French for rivulets or "burns," a translation of his name.


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