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,