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O, my luve’s like a red, red rose

January 25, 2011

At second glance, this is really complex prose that Burns starts in a dry, arid place and builds his case convincing his object d’amor.  It is brilliant and simple.  So here you go My Love ~

O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,                    (O, my love is like a red, red rose,)
That’s newly sprung in June.                           (That is newly sprung in June.)
O, my luve’s like the melodie,                        (O, my love is like the melody,)
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.                         (That is sweetly played in tune.)

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,                       (As fair are you, my lovely lass,)
So deep in luve am I,                                           (So deep in love am I,)
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,                 (And I will love you still, my Dear,)
Till a’ the seas gang dry.                                     (Till all the seas go dry.)

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my Dear,                 (Till all the seas go dry, my Dear,)
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!                      (And the rocks melt with the sun!)
O I will luve thee still, my Dear,                     (O I will love you still, my Dear,)
While the sands o’ life shall run.                    (While the sands of life shall run.)

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,                 (And fare you well, my only Love,)
And fare thee weel a while!                               (And fare you well a while!)
And I will come again, my Luve,                     (And I will come again, my Love,)
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!                       (Although it were ten thousand mile!)

So, Rabbie-boy:

“Here’s tae us                                                                                                                                         

Wha’s like us                                                                                                                                

Damn few,                                                                                                                                       

And they’re deid                                                                                                                          

Mair’s the pity!”

Happy Burns Day!.

Papa

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