O My Luve's like a red, red rose,
That newly Blossom in June:
O My Luve's like a melodie
That is softly played in tune. . . .
As far art thou,
So deep in love am I ? ;
I will love thee still , my dear,
Till a'seas gone dry.
And the rocks melt wi'the Sun
I will love you still, my dear,
While the Sands o'life shall run,
And fare thee weel, my Only Luve,
And fare the weel a while ! . . .
An I Come Again, my Luve,
Though it were Ten Thousand Mile.