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.