The Fairest Rose Is Far Awa'

The morn is blinking o'er the hills
With softened light and colors gay;
Through grove and valley sweetly trills
The melody of early day;
The dewy roses blooming fair
Glitter around her father's ha',
But still my Mary is not there, —
The fairest rose is far awa'.

The cooling zephyrs gently blow
Along the dew-bespangled mead, —
In every field the owsen low, —
The careless shepherd tunes his reed;
And while the roses blossom fair,
My lute with softly dying fa'
Laments that Mary is not there, —
The fairest rose is far awa'.

The thrush is singing on the hills,
And charms the groves that wave around,
And through the vale the winding rills
Awake a softly murmuring sound;
The robin tunes his mellow throat
Where glittering roses sweetly blaw,
But grieves that Mary hears him not, —
The fairest rose is far awa'.

Why breathe thy melody in vain,
Thou lovely songster of the morn?
Why pour thy ever-varying strain
Amid the sprays of yonder thorn?
Do not the roses blooming fair,
At morning's dawn or evening's fa',
Tell thee of one that is not there, —
The fairest rose that 's far awa'?
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