(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?