The Book of Scottish Song/Fair fa' the Lasses

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!

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