5
Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild,
When roving through the garden gay,
Go wandering in the lonely wild;
But woman, nature's darling child,
There all her charms she does compile,
Even there are other works are foil'd,
By the lass of Ballochmyle.
O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed,
That ever rose on Scotland's plain.
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy with rapture I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain;
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle
Then pride might climb the slippery step,
Where fame and honours lofty shine,
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward sink the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.
