Роберт Бернс (Robert Burns)

* * *

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’!

Oh, 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.

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