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,

Blythe in the birken shaw.

The Princely revel may survey

Our rustic dance wi' scorn;

But are their hearts as light as ours,

Beneath the milk-white thorn!

The shepherd, in the flowery glen;

In shepherd's phrase, will woo:

The courtier tells a finer tale,

But is his heart as true!

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck

That spotless breast o' thine:

The courtiers' gems may witness love,

But, 'tis na love like mine.