Robert Burns

Robert Burns

By Jorge Aliaga Cacho

Robert Burns was born on 25 January 1759 in the village of Alloway, about two miles from the town of Ayr, in Scotland. Burns is one of the greatest Scottish poets and the best loved famous figure of the country. On a recent trip to Peru, I told an audience about the origin of the word ‘gringo’. I told, my unbelievers, that I had heard one of my Scottish lecturers at the University of Glasgow tell the story of the British troops invading Mexican territory.

The invaders, many Scots in their ranks, sang on their marches entering the country, a particular catchy song entitled “Green Grow the Rashes, O”. This English words in a strong Scottish accent would have sounded in Spanish something like: Gringro. The deformation of this word has given origin to the new Spanish word: GRINGO which is used to refer to an individual of Anglo Saxon stock. Certain or not I wished to share this story with you as a preamble of Burns’ song itself.

Scottish Version


Green Grow The Rashes, O

Chorus

Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O.

1.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In every hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

2.

The war'ly race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O;

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

3.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O,

An' war'ly cares an' war'ly men

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

4.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

5.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O:

Her prentice han' she try'd on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.



English Version


Green Grow The Rushes, O

Green grow the rushes, O;

Green grow the rushes, O;

The sweetest hours that ever I spend,

Are spent among the girls, O.

There is nothing but care on every hand,

In every hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life of man,

And it were not for the girls, O.

The worldly race may riches chase,

And riches still may fly them, O;

And though at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can never enjoy them, O.

But give me a quiet hour at evening,

My arms about my dearie, O,

And worldly cares and worldly men

May all go topsy-turvy, O!

For you so grave, you sneer at this;

You are nothing but senseless asses, O;

The wisest man the world ever saw,

He dearly loved the girls, O.

Old Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O:

Her apprentice hand she tried on man,

And then she made the girls, O.