The Lass of Ballochmyle (1819)/The Lass of Ballochmyle

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Lass o' Ballochmyle.

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THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.

'Twas even, the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The zephyr wantoned reund the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang;
In every glen the mavis sang,
All nature list'ning seemed the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward strayed,
My heart rejoiced in Nature’s joy;
When musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like Nature’s vernal smile;
The lily’s hue and rose’s dye,
Bespake the lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Fair is the morn in flow’ry May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving through the garden gay;
Or wandering in the lonely wild;
But woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foiled
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

O had she been the country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though sheltered 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 bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours 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 have joys divine
Wi’ the bonnie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

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