ROBERT BURNS

A Red, Red Rose

My luve is like a red, red rose,

That’s newly sprung in June:

My luve is like the melodie,

That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,

So deep in luve am I,

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only luve,

And fare-thee-weel a while!

And I will come again, my luve,

Tho’ it were ten-thousand mile.