|
Green are the rashes, O; |
|
Green are the rashes, O; |
|
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, |
|
Are spent among the lasses, O. |
|
There's nought but care on ev'ry han', |
|
In every hour that passes, O: |
|
What signifies the life o' man, |
|
In hands of 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 cannot enjoy them, O. |
|
But give me cannie hour at night, |
|
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. |
