A Red,
Red Rose
Robert Burns (1759-1796)
Oh my luve is like a
red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in
June:
Oh 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!
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