Tune—­“Ettrick Banks.”

     ’Twas even—­the dewy fields were green,
     On every 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 echoes 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: 
     Perfection whisper’d, passing by,
     “Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!”

     Fair is the morn in flowery May,
     And sweet is night 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;
     Even there her other works are foil’d
     By the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

     O, had she been a country maid,
     And I the happy country swain,
     Tho’ shelter’d in the lowest shed
     That ever rose on Scotland’s plain! 
     Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain,
     With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
     And nightly to my bosom strain
     The bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

     Then pride might climb the slipp’ry steep,
     Where frame 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
     With the bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle.

Lines To An Old Sweetheart

     Once fondly lov’d, and still remember’d dear,
     Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
     Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere,
     Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows. 
     And when you read the simple artless rhymes,
     One friendly sigh for him—­he asks no more,
     Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,
     Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar.

Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication

     The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art,
     He pours the wild effusions of the heart;
     And if inspir’d ’tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire;
     Her’s all the melting thrill, and her’s the kindling fire.

Lines To Mr. John Kennedy

     Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you,
     And ’mang her favourites admit you: 
     If e’er Detraction shore to smit you,
     May nane believe him,
     And ony deil that thinks to get you,
     Good Lord, deceive him!

Lines Written On A Banknote