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.