O where are ye going, sweet Robin?
⁠What makes you sae proud and sae shy?
I once saw the day, little Robin,
⁠My friendship you would not deny.
But winter again is returning,
⁠And weather both stormy and snell:
Gin ye will come back, little Robin,
⁠I'll feed ye wi' moulins mysel'.

When summer comes in, little Robin
⁠Forgets all his friends and his care;
Away to the fields flies sweet Robin,
⁠To wander the groves here and there.
Though you be my debtor, sweet Robin,
⁠On you I will never lay blame;
For I've had as dear friends as Robin,
⁠Who often have served me the same.

I once had a lover like Robin,
⁠Who long for my love did implore;
At last he took flight, just like Robin,
⁠And him I ne'er saw any more.
But should the stern blast of misfortune
⁠Return him, as winter does thee,
Though slighted by both, little Robin,
⁠Yet both of your faults I'll forgi'e.