Robert Burns,
Green Grows the Rashes
(1823)
“ There nought but care on every hand, In every hour that passes, O. What signifies the life o' man And 'twere na for the lasses, O Green grow the rashes, O, Green grow the rashes, O, The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, I spent amang the lasses, O. The warldly race may rich chase, And riches still may flee them, O And though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. ”
