1.
Poor Robin, once merrily,
He toil'd the live-long day,
When massa's kind and cheerful smile,
Could cheer us on our way;
But Robin, now is growing old,
He totters down the hill,
With the bag of corn upon his back,
He's bearing to the mill.

CHORUS
Oh! the happy, happy days
When we were young and gay,
And I lov'd upon the banjo strings,
So merrily to play;
With my bridle in my hand,
O 'twas frolic and 'twas fun,
Across the field and meadow
then to see old Robin run,
But Robin, poor Robin,
poor Robin's growing old,
poor Robin's growing old.

2.
Poor Robin: 'twas my pride to comb,
His long and glossy mane,
Bit now his working days are gone,
He'll never run again;
And as I gently smooth him down
It makes me heave a sigh,
For well I know that massa soon,
Well turn him out to die.

(CHORUS)

3.
And now old Robin's almost gone,
A tear will wet my cheek,
For Robin is a faithful friend,
Altho' he cannot speak;
Alas! that he has grown so old,
And totters down the hill,
With the bag of corn upon his back,
He's bearing to the mill.

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