The Life Literary

(Click to play the soundtrack for this post):  O, My Luve’s Like A Red, Red Rose

I held my newborn grandson, looked at his peaceful, sweet face and wanted to sing, but what song?  I remember singing little made-up nonsense tunes to our children when they were babies.  I thought through the ones I have memorized and hit on “Red, Red, Rose” by Robert Burns, a love song I first learned for Rider’s grandmother, my wife.  Amazing how it fit at that moment.  I could hardly finish it, I was so moved by the infant, the song and that moment.  I could only sing it softly there in the hospital room, for the baby’s ears alone.

O my luve’s like a red, red, rose, that’s newly sprung in June
My luve’s like the melodie, that’s sweetly play’d in tune

So pink and perfect and beautiful this little one in my arms, he is at this moment like a newly emerged flower, a precious bud, just opened.  Funny that it’s almost June now.  What a wonderful spring gift you are, child.  And somehow in a way that surprises me, catches me off guard, you make my heart and voice sing.

As fair art thou my bonny child*, so deep in luve am I,
And I will love you still, my child**, ’till a the seas gang dry

We’ve just met but somehow, I’ve known you all my my life.  Burns’s exaggeration, “’till all the seas gang dry,” has always made me smile.  I love his excess, how he lavished his emotion through his poetry and songs.  The passion flowing through these words fits this moment perfectly.

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

There is nothing in heaven or earth that could stop my love for you, dear child of my child.  What you’ve done by being born is a sort of cataclysm.  You’ve melted our hearts with your presence, turned the geography of our lives upside down.  And yes, while the sands of life shall run, I will love you.

And fare thee weel my only love, and fair thee weel a while
And I will come again my love, tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile

I’m sorry to have to be leaving you soon.  You’re mine in a way, but not really.  Even my own children were never “mine,” though I helped nurture and raise them.  Your parents get the joyful burden of caring for you, watching you grow day by day, year by year.  I will try not to be too far from you and I’ll try not to ever be gone for long.  But even if I have to go away for a while, I’ll come back to see you, to talk and play, to hold you, to love you with the love that only a grandfather can give.

Rider, like a red, red rose, newly sprung in (almost) June

* The original word is “lass”
** The original word is “dear”