Bid her not ſhed one tear of ſorrow,
To fully a heart ſo brilliant and light,
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my ſong is o’er,
Oh! take my Harp to your ancient hall,
Hang it up at ſome friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call;
Then if ſome Bard who roams forſaken,
Revives its ſoft notes while paſſing along,
Oh! let the thoughts of its maſter waken
Your warmeſt ſmiles for the child of ſong.
Keep this Cup, which is now o’erflowing,
To grace your revels when I’m at reſt,
Never, Oh! never, its balm beſtowing,
On lips that beauty has ſeldom bleſs’d;
But when ſome warm devoted lover
To her he adores ſhall bathe its brim,
Oh! then my ſpirit around ſhall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams within.
Fair fa’ the Lasses.
Tune— “Green Grow the Rushes, O.”
Fair fa' the laſſes, O!
Fair fa' the laſſes, O!
And dool and care ſtill be his ſhare,
Wha does na lo’e the laſſes, O!
