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 nought but care on ev'ry han' ,
In ev'ry hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
The war'ly race may riches chase, -
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
But gie me a cannie hour at e'en ,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly 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 lov'd the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes , O;
Green grow the rashes , O;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O.
Today is Robert Burns Day! Robert Burns, the great poet of Scotland, born this day in 1759. I love his work dearly, and this particular poem, “Green Grow the Rashes O”, is likely my favorite.
For more on him, read Sheila O’Malley. Failing that, read some Burns!
