Robert Burns (1759–1796)

O WERE my love yon lilac fair,

Wi’ purple blossoms to the Spring,

And I, a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing!

How I wad mourn when it was torn

By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing,

When youthfu’ May its bloom renew’d.

O gin my love were yon red rose,

That grows upon the castle wa’;

And I mysel a drap o’ dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa’!

O there, beyond expression blest,

I’d feast on beauty a’ the night;

Seal’d on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Till fley’d awa by Phoebus’ light!