It rains It rains it rains and rains

It rains. It rains. It rains and rains
And it is summer here.
The thin and gently drifting wet
Creeps in at every pore.

Yes, green the meadow, green the hill,
The Bracken grows so fast.
The roses bloom
Birds sing their tune,
And faster grows the grass.
And faster grows the grass, my friend,
And faster grows the grass.

Though we might cut and strim, my friend
Though we might cut and strim,
Our task will never reach its end
Since faster grows the grass.

Tomorrow, friend, the forecast says,
‘Twill be a brighter day,
And we can not afford to laze
For we must make our hay.

For sunny days seem all too rare
In Scotland’s Northern clime.
And we must cut that grass, my friend,
Whenever we have time.
Yes, we must cut the grass, my friend
As soon as sun does shine.

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