(The chorus is old.)


AWAY to the Fair, my lad did repair
Ere day had the welkin adorned;
Now day's glidden by and night's in the sky,
And he, he has never returned:
Now day's glidden by, coal-black is the sky,
And, tho' a dead calm's in the air,
O'er mountain and plain, a storm brews amain-
And Willie comes not from the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be
Willie comes not from the Fair?

Came Tam cap a-gley with Robin, and he
But nodded to Bell o'er the way;
And Robin did call on Tib at the Hall,
But naught of his neighbour did say:
And Allie went by, a laugh in his eye
For Meg of the Colliree Square;
But never a word of Willie was heard-
And Willie comes not from the Fair.

Chorus-O, dear, etc.

I ended my wark while lilted the lark
'Tere-lere' to his grass-hidden mate;
And drest in my best, a rose in my breast,
I've waited his coming-and wait:
The door set ajar, the fire I stir,
And, often a-combing my hair,
I hark for the beat of two merry feet-
But Willie comes not from the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, etc.

'What ails the jewel?' my mother, she cries
'Ye're white as the cap on your head;'
'An imp's in the lass,' my father replies;
'Let, let her be off to her bed.'
Atween hearth and door, I wander the floor,
A-deaf to their bidding and prayer;
And halt but to keek in the storm-rock'd night-
But Willie comes not from the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, etc.

Now fear fills the house-some shriek from affright
The dog howls aloud by the hearth;
For runnels of fire do flash thro' the night,
And deep thunder growls shake the earth:
On high, at each growl, 'Tu-whit,' cries the owl
'Tu-whoo!' while the windows declare,
In terrific screams, how the fierce rain teems-
And Willie's not come from the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, etc.

Away dies the storm, and up peers the moon
To brighten a cloud black as death;
While a clear cock-crow succeeds to the tune,
The storm piped the while he had breath:
Now sleeps the whole house-save cricket and
mouse,
I oft to the window repair,
And start at each sound: but the hours go round-
And Willie comes not from the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, etc.

The night weareth old, to bed I must go,
But neither to slumber nor rest;
The thought of my lad the weary night, so
Will pierce like a thorn in my breast:
But up with the lark, to granny's I'll down,
For if he's arrived he'll be there;
And if he is not, I'll off to the town
And seek for him all thro' the Fair.

Chorus-O dear, what can the matter be?
O dear, what can the matter be?
Dear, dear, what can the matter be
Willie comes not from the Fair?