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.
VI.
Guid faith, quo’ she, I doubt you gar,
The bonnie lasses lie aspar,
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,
So blessin’s on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin!
XX.
HER FLOWING LOCKS.
Tune—(unknown.)
[One day—it is tradition that speaks—Burns had his foot in the stirrup to return from Ayr to Mauchline, when a young lady of great beauty rode up to the inn, and ordered refreshments for her servants; he made these lines at the moment, to keep, he said, so much beauty in his memory.]
Her flowing locks, the raven’s wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wat wi’ dew,
O, what a feast her bonnie mou’!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.