A poem by Robert Burns

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.

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