Love PoemsA red, red rose
Ae Fond Kiss
Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul
An ode to Delia
Farewell To Eliza
O, my luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. O, my luve is like a melodie, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, 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 !
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him ? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love forever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met--or never parted-- We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever ! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee !
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night may fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie: The time flew by, wi' tentless heed, Till 'tween the late and early; Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, To see me thro' the barley. The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shinning clearly; I set her down, wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley: I ken't her heart was a' my ain; I lov'd her most sincerely; I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley. I lock'd her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely: My blessing on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly! She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley. I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley. Chorus Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonie: I'll ne'er forget the happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
Clarinda, mistress of my soul, The measur'd time is run ! The wretch beneath the dreary pole So marks his latest sun. To what dark cave of frozen night Shall poor Sylvander hie; Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, The sun of all his joy ? We part-but by these precious drops, That fill thy lovely eyes, No other light shall guide my steps, Till thy bright beams arise ! She, the fair sun of all her sex, Has blest my glorious day; And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray ?
Fair the face of orient day, Fair the tints of op'ning rose; But fairer still my Delia dawns, More lovely far her beauty shows. Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear. The flower-enamour'd busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; O let me steal one liquid kiss, For Oh! my soul is parch'd with love.
From thee, Eliza, I must go, And from my native shore; The cruel fates between us throw A boundless ocean's roar: But boundless oceans, roaring wide, Between my love and me, They never, never can divide My heart and soul from thee. Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, The maid that I adore ! A boding voice is in mine ear, We part to meet no more ! But the latest throb that leaves my heart, While Death stands victor by, - That throb, Eliza, is thy part, And thine that latest sigh !
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, The drift is driving sairly; Sae loud and shrillís I hear the blast, Iím sure itís winter fairly. Up in the morningís no for me, Up in the morning early; When aí the hills are coveríd wií snaw, Iím sure its winter fairly. The birds sit chittering in the thorn, Aí day they fare but sparely; And langís the night frae eíen to morn, Iím sure itís winter fairly. Up in the morningís no for me, Up in the morning early; When aí the hills are coveríd wií snaw, Iím sure its winter fairly.
Robert Burns(į1759; Ü1796)