BY Allan stream I chancd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds are whispering thro the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listend to a lovers sang,
An thought on youthfu pleasures mony;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!
O, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,
The place and time I met my Dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, Im thine for ever!
While mony a kiss the seal imprest
The sacred vow we neer should sever.
The haunt o Springs the primrose-brae,
The Summer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery thro her shortning day,
Is Autumn in her weeds o yellow;
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?
Or thro each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosoms treasure?
