  Oh, have you seen the blushing rose, The blooming pink, or lilly pale, Fairer than any flow’r that blows Is Lucy Gray of Allendale. Pensive and sad o’er braes and burn, Where oft the nymph they us’d to hail; The shepherds now are heard to mourn, For Lucy Gray of Allendale. With her to join the rural dance, Far have I stray’d o’er hill and dale, Where, pleas’d, each rustic stole a glance, At Lucy Gray of Allendale. ’Twas underneath yon hawthorn shade, That first I told the tender tale, But now low lays the lovely maid, Sweet Lucy Gray of Allendale. Bleak blows the wind, keen beats the rain, Upon my cottage in the vale; Long may I mourn, a lonely swain, For Lucy Gray of Allendale. |
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