A RED, RED ROSE

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796)
                           
O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's 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;
I will luve thee still my Dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,
And fare the weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it ware ten thousand mile!



The End