|
|
| |
O MY luves like a red, red rose, |
|
Thats newly sprung in June : |
O my luves like a melodie |
|
Thats sweetly play'd in tune. |
As fair art though, my bonnie 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 love thee still, my dear, |
|
While the sands o' life shall run. |
A 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.
|
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.
|
|