There's Gowd in the Breast

There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale,
An' siller in every blossom ;
There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale,
And health in the wild wood's bosom.
Then come, my love, at the hour of joy,
When warbling birds sing o'er us ;
Sweet nature for us has no alloy,
And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in bustle and power,
The soldier in war-steeds bounding,
The miser in hoards of treasured ore,
The proud in their pomp surrounding :
But we hae yon heaven, sae bonny and blue,
And laverocks skimming out o'er us ;
The breezes of health and the valleys of dew —
O the world is all before us !