O my love is like a sweet spring morn, When mountains bloom anew, Like dews that kiss the flowers awake, With joys for me and you.

And when the sun begins to rise, And paints the hills with gold, It’s in that glorious light I’ll shine, A love that won’t grow old.

So gather me, my darling dear, In nature’s warm embrace, For every leaf and every breeze Whispers love in this place.

• Robert Burns