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.