O, my luve is like a red, red rose.

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.--Robert Burns

Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .

O, my luve is like a red, red rose.

[Scottish songs] are, I own, frequently wild, & unreduceable to the more modern rules; but on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their effect.

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.

The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know And keenly felt the friendly glow And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name!