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　　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. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns