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.
– Robert Burns