 | May Fair |  |
Until the sunshine's rosy dip,
Faint rival of your lady's lip;
And the breeze across the hill,
Warns you that you're standing still,
And a glance towards your oaks
Shows your curling household smokes,
Shows you that your lamps are lighted,
Shows, if you stop, you'll be benighted.
Faint rival of your lady's lip;
And the breeze across the hill,
Warns you that you're standing still,
And a glance towards your oaks
Shows your curling household smokes,
Shows you that your lamps are lighted,
Shows, if you stop, you'll be benighted.
| May Fair | |