The Lass O' Ballochmyle

Tune—"Ettrick Banks."

     'Twas even—the dewy fields were green,
     On every blade the pearls hang;
     The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
     And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
     In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
     All nature list'ning seem'd the while,
     Except where greenwood echoes rang,
     Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

     With careless step I onward stray'd,
     My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
     When, musing in a lonely glade,
     A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy:
     Her look was like the morning's eye,
     Her air like nature's vernal smile:
     Perfection whisper'd, passing by,
     "Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!"

     Fair is the morn in flowery May,
     And sweet is night in autumn mild;
     When roving thro' the garden gay,
     Or wand'ring in the lonely wild:
     But woman, nature's darling child!
     There all her charms she does compile;
     Even there her other works are foil'd
     By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

     O, had she been a country maid,
     And I the happy country swain,
     Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed
     That ever rose on Scotland's plain!
     Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
     With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
     And nightly to my bosom strain
     The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

     Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
     Where frame and honours lofty shine;
     And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
     Or downward seek the Indian mine:
     Give me the cot below the pine,
     To tend the flocks or till the soil;
     And ev'ry day have joys divine
     With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.