Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string
In lordly lighted ha’:
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blythe, in the birken shaw.
IV.
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi’ scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours,
Beneath the milk-white thorn?
V.
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?
VI.
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.