Classic Poem

'Twas ev'n, the dewy fields were green,
On ev'ry 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 Echos 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,
The lilies' hue and roses' die
Bespoke the Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Fair is a morn in flow'ry May,
And sweet an ev'n in Autumn mild;
When roving through the garden gay,
Or wand'ring in the lonely wild;
But Woman, Nature's darling child,
There all her charms she does compile,
And all her other works are foil'd
By th' bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.

O if she were a country Maid,
And I the happy country Swain!
Though shelt'red in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotia's plain:
Through weary Winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then Pride might climb the slipp'ry steep
Where fame and honors 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 has joys divine
With th' bony Lass o' Ballochmyle.