I heard sweet music's melting din,
And merry young folks' gigglin glee;
Then kindly I was usher'd in,
As if they'd met to welcome me.
A lassie there fu' featly danced,
And through the reel sae lichtly flew;
In raptures she my soul entranced—
The lassie by the loch sae blue.
I saw, while gazing on her face,
The rose an' lily close allied;
And on ilk bloomin' cheek could trace,
The scented apple's sunny side.
Her lips were like the red-rose bud,
Before the sun has sipp'd its dew;
Her bosom like the snawy clud
Reflected in the loch sae blue.
Soon to her mither's house I went,
An' courted her wi' love sincere;
To marry me she ga'e consent,
When o' the navy I was clear.
That nane but she should be my wife,
I pledged wi' her my written voo;
Meanwhile, she left the shores o' Fife
To dwell beside the loch sae blue.
It wasna lang ere I was free,
For peace to Europe soon return'd;
An' my dear destined bride to see,
Wi' fervent glow my bosom burn'd.
I sought my native land—I found
My lassie to her pledge was true;
An' soon by Hymen's bands was bound
To Bessie—by the loch sae blue.
Fair fa’ the Lasses.
[Captain Charles Gray, R. M.—Air, "Green grow the rashes."]
Fair fa' the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, O!
May dool and care still be his share,
Wha doesna lo'e the lasses, O!
Pale poverty and girnin' care,
How lang will ye harass us, O?
Yet light's the load we ha'e to bear,
If lessened by the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The rich may sneer as they gae by,
Or scornfully may pass us, O;
Their better lot we'll ne'er envy,
But live and love the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
Why should we ever sigh for wealth?
Sic thochts should never fash us, O;
A fig for pelf, when blest wi' health,
Content, and bonnie lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The ancient bards, to shaw their skill,
Placed Muses on Parnassus, O,
But let them fable as they will,
My muses are the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
The toper cries, the joy o' wine
A' ither joy surpasses, O;
But he ne'er kent the bliss divine,
That I ha'e wi' the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
When I am wi' the chosen few,
The time fu' quickly passes, O:
But days are hours, and less, I trow,
When I am wi' the lasses, O!
Fair fa' the lasses, &c.
When joys abound, then let a round
Of overflowing glasses, O,
Gae brisk about, and clean drunk out,
The toast be—"bonnie lasses," O!
Fair fa' the lasses, O!
Auld Scotland's bonnie lasses, O!
May dool and care still be his share,
Wha winna toast the lasses, O!
Our ain Land.
[William Ferousson.—Here first printed.—Tune, "John Barleycorn." The two first lines of this chorus are from a song by Hew Ainslie in his "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns."]
Hurrah, and hurrah,
And hurrah, my merry men!
I wadna gi'e our ain land
For a' the lands I ken.
