Mary Balogh
Red Rose
Song
My Luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
My Luve is like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So 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;
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare-thee-well, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-well, a while!
And I will come again, my, Luve,
Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!
Robert Burns
Chapter 1
The coachman gave his horses the signal to start, and the old traveling carriage, its blue paintwork faded, its coat of arms chipped and shabby, slowly moved past the tollgate and onto open highway again.
"That be the last un," he said with some relief. "We'll be drinkin' our ale in Lunnun tonight, me lad."
"Be it far, then?" asked the lad, a footman of a mere thirty years.
"Keep yer poppers open when we top yonder rise," his companion said, pointing his whip ahead a couple of miles to where the road disappeared over the crest of a hill, "an' yer’ll be able to see Lunnun spread afore ye."
The footman leaned forward eagerly, as if he thought the action would bring him sooner to his first view of London.
Inside the carriage, Lady Sylvia Marsh sat forward as soon as it jolted into motion again and scanned the countryside eagerly. "We must be getting close now," she said. "Surely we will be able to see the city soon."
"You have been saying so for the last five hours, Sylvie," her companion pointed out with a sigh. "Do please sit back and sleep or look out the window to enjoy the scenery. You will not bring our destination one inch closer by being such a jack-in-the-box."