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.