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,