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.