With careless step I onward stray’d, My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy, When, musing in a lonely glade, A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy: Her look was like the morning’s eye, Her air like nature’s vernal smile: Perfection whisper’d, passing by, “Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!” Fair is the morn in flowery May, And sweet is night in autumn mild; When roving thro’ the garden gay, Or wand’ring in the lonely wild: But woman, nature’s darling child! There all her charms she does compile; Even there her other works are foil’d By the bonie lass 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 Scotland’s plain! Thro’ weary winter’s wind and rain, With joy, with rapture, I would toil; And nightly to my bosom strain The bonie lass 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 bonie lass o’ Ballochmyle. Lines To An Old Sweetheart Once fondly lov’d, and still remember’d dear, Sweet early object of my youthful vows, Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, Friendship! ’tis all cold duty now allows. And when you read the simple artless rhymes, One friendly sigh for him—he asks no more, Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes, Or haply lies beneath th’ Atlantic roar. Motto Prefixed To The Author’s First Publication The simple Bard, unbroke by rules of art, He pours the wild effusions of the heart; And if inspir’d ’tis Nature’s pow’rs inspire; Her’s all the melting thrill, and her’s the kindling fire. Lines To Mr. John Kennedy Farewell, dear friend! may guid luck hit you, And ’mang her favourites admit you: If e’er Detraction shore to smit you, May nane believe him, And ony deil that thinks to get you, Good Lord, deceive him! Lines Written On A Banknote Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief! For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my lass! For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glass! I see the children of affliction Unaided, through thy curst restriction: I’ve seen the oppressor’s cruel smile Amid his hapless victim’s spoil; And for thy potence vainly wished, To crush the villain in the dust: For lack o’ thee, I leave this much-lov’d shore, Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. R.B. Stanzas On Naething Extempore Epistle to Gavin Hamilton, Esq.