Green Grow The Rushes,O (2).
Robert Burns (1759-1796)
There’s naught but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life of man,
And ’twere not for the lasses, O?
Green Grow the Rushes, O
Green Grow the Rushes, O
The sweetest hours that e’er are spent,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
The worldly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts may ne’er enjoy them, O.
Green Grow the Rushes, O
Green Grow the Rushes, O
The sweetest hours that e’er are spent,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
Give me a quiet hour at even,
My arms about my dearie, O;
And worldly cares and worldly men,
May all go topsyturvy, O.
Green Grow the Rushes, O
Green Grow the Rushes, O
The sweetest hours that e’er are spent,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
For you so prim you sneer at this,
You’re naught but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the world e’er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Green Grow the Rushes, O
Green Grow the Rushes, O
The sweetest hours that e’er are spent,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
Old Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest works she classes, O;
Her prentice hand she tried on man–
And then she made the lasses, O.
Green Grow the Rushes, O
Green Grow the Rushes, O
The sweetest hours that e’er are spent,
Are spent among the lasses, O.
Drawing
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