Air - "My lodging is on the cold ground."
My Chloris, mark how green the groves,
The primrose banks how fair:
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen 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 flow'ry 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 courtier's gems may witness love -
But 'tis na love like mine.