Oh, My love is like a red red rose in autumn.
Her petals are pale and wrinkled where the wind and rain have caught'm.
She's lost that glow she had in days of summer
And the way she looks now is a bit of a bummer.
If the bees were around now they wouldn't give her a second look
And even the butterflies would tell her to sling her hook.
Weather-beaten and past her best she stoops
And what was once her best feature simply droops.
Oh, that beauteous demeanour, will it return? No never.
But, och, what e'er befalls - her thorns are yet as prickly as ever.