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'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.