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O, my luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: My luve is like a melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. So fair thou art, my bonnie 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 of life shall run. And fare the weel, my only luve, And fare the well awhile! And I will come again, my luve. Tho' it were ten thousand mile.© Robert Burns. All rights reserved.
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