A RED， RED ROSE

By Robert Burns

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 sea gang dry， my dear，

And the rock 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’s it were ten thousand mile!