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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Green Grow the Rashes

By Robert Burns (1759–1796)

THERE’S naught but care on every han’,

In every hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life o’ man,

An ’t werena for the lasses, O?

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e’er I spent

Were spent amang the lasses, O!

The warly race may riches chase,

An’ riches still may fly them, O;

An’ though at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

But gi’e me a canny hour at e’en,

My arms about my dearie, O;

An’ warly cares, an’ warly men,

May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,

Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O;

The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,

He dearly loved the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O;

Her ’prentice han’ she tried on man,

An’ then she made the lasses, O.