O my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve is like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair thou art, 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!
-- Robert Burns
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