“Greene grow the rashes O”

Robert Burns (1759–1796)

GREEN grow the rashes O,

Green grow the rashes O;

The sweetest hours that e’er I spend

Are spent amang the lasses O!

There ’s naught but care on ev’ry han’,

In every hour that passes O;

What signifies the life o’ man,

An ’t were na for 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!

Gie me a canny hour at e’en,

My arms about my dearie O,

An’ warly cares an’ warly men

May all gae tapsalteerie O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,

Ye ’re naught but senseless asses O;

The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw

He dearly lo’ed 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!