Lord Roland rose, and went to mass,
And doffed his mourning weed!
And bade them bring a looking-glass,
And saddle fast a steed;
“I’ll deck with gems my bonnet’s loop,
And wear a feather fine,
And when lorn lovers sit and droop
Why, I will sit and dine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!
Though Elgitha be thus untrue,
Adèle is beauteous yet;
And he that’s baffled by the blue
May bow before the jet;
So welcome—welcome hall or heath!
So welcome shower or shine!
And wither there, thou willow wreath,
Thou never shalt be mine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily,
And fill the cup of wine!
Proud Elgitha! a health to thee,—
A health in brimming gold!
And store of lovers after me,
As honest, and less cold:
My hand is on my bugle horn,
My boat is on the brine;
If ever gallant died of scorn,
I shall not die of thine!
Sing merrily, sing merrily!
And fill the cup of wine!