'Twas even,-the dewy fields were green,
     On ilka 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 rejoiced in nature's joy;
When, musing in a lonely glade,
     A maiden fair I chanced to spy:
Her look was like a 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 through the garden gay,
     Or wand'ring in the lonely wild;
But women, nature's darling child!
     There all her charms she does compile;
Even there her other works are foil'd,
     By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Oh, had she been a country maid,
     And I a happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowest shed
     That ever rose on Scotland's plain!
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
     With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain,
     The bonnie 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 dig the Indian mine.
Give me the cot below the pine,
     To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And ev'ry day have joys devine,
     Wi' the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

                                          Robert Burns    (1786)