'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 Las o’ Ballochmyle.
Perfection whispered passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is a morn in flow’ry May,
And sweet an ev’n in Autumn mild;
When roving thro' 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.