Green grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O;
The sweetest hours that e’er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses O!
There ’s naught but care on ev’ry han’,
In every hour that passes O;
What signifies the life o’ man,
An ’t were na for the lasses O?
The warly race may riches chase,
An’ riches still may fly...
[Read at the Unveiling of His Statue in Central Park, May, 1877]
AMONG their graven shapes to whom
Thy civic wreaths belong,
O city of his love! make room
For one whose gift was song.
Not his the soldier’s sword to wield,
Nor his the helm of state,
Nor glory of the stricken field,
Nor triumph of debate.
In...
I see the sons of genius rise
The nobles of our land,
And foremost in the gathering ranks
I see the poet-band.
That priesthood of the Beautiful
To whom alone 't is given
To lift our spirits from the dust,
...
