behold, my love, how green the groves

    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.