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CHORUS
Green
grow the rashes O,
Green grow the rashes O,
The lasses they hae wimble bores,
The widows they hae gashes O.
In
sober hours I am a priest;
A hero when I'm tipsey, O;
But I'm a king and ev'ry thing,
When wi a wanton Gipsey, O.
'Twas
late yestreen I met wi ane,
An wow, but she was gentle, O!
Ae han she pat roun my cravat,
The tither to my pintle O.
I
dought na speak ? yet was na fley'd
My heart play'd duntie, duntie, O;
An ceremony laid aside,
I fairly fun' her cuntie, O.
Multa desunt
Poem Index
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