Five Burns Songs

O my [Luve's]1 like a red, red rose 
  That's newly sprung in June: 
O my [Luve's]1 like the melodie 
  That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 
  [So]2 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; 
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.

Chorus
  O whistle, [an']1 I'll come to ye, my lad,
  O whistle, [an']1 I'll come to ye, my lad;
  Tho' [fahther]2, [an']1 mother, [an']1 a' should gae mad,
    [O, whistle an' I'll come to ye, my lad!]3

I
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-style and let naebody see,
  And come as ye were na comin to me ,
  And come as ye were na comin to me !

II
At kirk, or at market whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e,
  Yet look as ye were na lookin at me,
  Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.

III
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be,
  For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me,
  For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

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's wild-woods grow, and rivers row, 
  And mony a hill between; 
But day and night my 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.

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
  When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 
  Your bonie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 
  Your locks are like the snaw; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
  John Anderson, my jo! 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 
  We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a cantie day, John, 
  We've had wi' ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
  But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
  John Anderson, my jo!

The Winter it is past, 
and the summer comes at last,
And the small birds, they sing on ev'ry tree;
Now ev'ry thing is glad,
while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier,
by the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest,
and their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is parted from me.