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,