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.