7
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And blackest fiends devour him.
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And honest souls abhor him.
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.
GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O.
Green grow the rashes O,
Grern grow the rashes, O,
The sweetest hour that e'er I spent,
I spent amang the lasses O.
There's nought but care on every han',
In every hour that passes O,
That signifies the life o' man,
And 'twere na for the lasses, O.
The wardly race may riches chase,
And riches still may flee, them O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
