TWAS eventhe dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wantond round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In evry glen the mavis sang,
All nature listning seemd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o Ballochmyle.
With careless step I onward strayd,
My heart rejoicd in natures joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chancd to spy:
Her look was like the mornings eye,
Her air like natures vernal smile:
Perfection whisperd, 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 wandring in the lonely wild:
But woman, natures darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foild
By the bonie lass o Ballochmyle.
O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho shelterd in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotlands plain!
Thro weary winters 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 slippry 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 evry day have joys divine
With the bonie lass o Ballochmyle.