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.