but woman, nature's darling child!

there all her charms she does pile;

even there her other works are foil'd

by the boniess o' ballochmyle.

o, had she been a country maid,

and i the happy country swain,

tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed

that ever rose on scond's in!

thro' weary winter's wind and rain,

with joy, with rapture, i would toil;

and nightly to my bosom strain

the boniess o' ballochmyle.

then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,

where frame and honours lofty shine;

and thirst of gold might tempt the deep,

or downward seek the indian mine:

give me the cot below the pine,

to tend the flocks or till the soil;

and ev'ry day have joys divine

with the boniess o' ballochmyle.