’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!
