behold, my love, how green the groves
tune—“my lodging is on the cold ground.”
behold, my love, how green the groves,
the primrose banks how fair;
the balmy gales awake the flowers,
and wave thy flowing hair.
the lav'rock shuns the palace gay,
and o'er the cottage sings:
for nature smiles as sweet, i ween,
to shepherds as to kings.
let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string,
in lordly lighted ha':
the shepherd stops his simple reed,
blythe in the birken shaw.
the princely revel may survey
our rustic dance wi' scorn;
but are their hearts as light as ours,
beneath the milk-white thorn!
the shepherd, in the flowery glen;
in shepherd's phrase, will woo:
the courtier tells a finer tale,
but is his heart as true!
these wild-wood flowers i've pu'd, to deck
that spotless breast o' thine:
the courtiers' gems may witness love,
but, 'tis na love like mine.