Robert Burns

There's naught but care on every hand,
In every hour that passes, O.
What signifies the life o' man
An 't were na for 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

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O
An' warly cares an' warly men
May all gae tapsalteerie O.

For you sae douce, you sneer at this,
Ye're naught but senseless asses, O!
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lo'ed the lasses, O.

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