Green Growe The Rashes

Green Growe the Rashes
by Robert Burns

There’s nocht but care on every han ,
In every oor that passes, O:
What signifies the life o man,
An ’twerenae for the lasses, O.

Green growe the rashes, O;
Green growe the rashes, O;
The sweetest oors that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.

The wardly race may riches chase, –
And riches still may fly them, O;
And tho at last they catch them fast,
Their herts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

Green growe the rashes, O;
Green growe the rashes, O;
The sweetest oors that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.

Gie me a canty oor at e’en ,
My airms aboot my dearie, O;
And wardly cares, and wardly men,
Can aa gang tapsalteerie, O!

Green growe the rashes, O;
Green growe the rashes, O;
The sweetest oors that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.

Auld Nature sweirs, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her prentice han’ she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

Green growe the rashes, O;
Green growe the rashes, O;
The sweetest oors that e’er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O.