behold, my love, how green the groves

tune—“my lodging is on the cold ground.”

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,