Robert Burns Translations

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, my love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June and my love is like the melody that's sweetly played in tune. And you're so fair, my lovely lass, and so deep in love am I, that I will love you still, my dear, till all the seas run dry. Till all the seas run dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun! And I will love you still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run. And fare you well, my only love! And fare you well, awhile! And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand miles! *** Comin Thro the Rye by Robert Burns modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Should a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Should a body kiss a body, Need anybody cry? Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Should a body meet a body Comin' through the glen, Should a body kiss a body, Need all the world know, then? Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. *** Auld Lange Syne by Robert Burns modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Should old acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot, And days for which we pine? For times we shared, my darling, Days passed, once yours and mine, We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet, To those fond-remembered times! *** Banks of Doon by Robert Burns modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon, How can you bloom so fresh and fair; How can you chant, diminutive birds, When I'm so weary, full of care! You'll break my heart, small warblers, Flittering through the flowering thorn: Reminding me of long-lost joys, Departed, never to return! I've often wandered lovely Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And as the lark sang of its love, Just as fondly, I sang of mine. Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose, So fragrant upon its thorny tree; And my false lover stole my rose, But, ah!, he left the thorn in me.