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| A Red, Red Rose By: Robert Burns (1759-1796) Oh my Luve's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June; Oh my Luve's like the melodie, That's sweelty play'd in tune. As fair art thou, 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. 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. |
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