Poetry of Robert Burns

Rantin’, rovin’, Robin

There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But what’n a day o’ what’n a style
I doubt it’s hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi’ Robin.

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,
‘Twas then a blast o’ Janwar win’
Blew hansel in on Robin.

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.

He’ll hae misfortunes great and sma’,
But aye a heart aboon them a’;
He’ll be a credit till us a’.
We’ll a’ be proud o’ Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’,
So leez me on thee, Robin.

Guid faith, quo’ scho, I doubt you, Sir,
Ye gar the lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessings on thee, Robin!

Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.