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| O MY luve’s like a red, red rose, |
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That’s newly sprung in June : |
| O my luve’s like a melodie |
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That’s sweetly play’d in tune. |
| As fair art though, my bonnie lass, |
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So deep in luve am I : |
| And I will luve thee still, my dear, |
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Till a’ the seas gang dry. |
| Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, |
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And the rocks melt wi’ the sun: |
| I will love thee still, my dear, |
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While the sands o’ life shall run. |
| A fare thee weel, my only luve! |
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And fare thee weel, a while! |
| And I will come again, my luve, |
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Tho’ it were ten thousand mile. |
| Transcribed from The Works of Robert Burns,; with an account of his life, and a criticism on his writings. To which are prefixed, some observations on the character and condition of the Scottish peasantry. In four volumes. Vol. II. The Second Edition. London: Printed for T. Cadell, Jun. and W. Davies, Strand; and W. Creech, Edinburgh. 1801. Printed by R. Noble in the Old Bailey [467 pages] p. 343. |
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