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.