| |
| BY Allan stream I chanc’d to rove, | |
| While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi; | |
| The winds are whispering thro’ the grove, | |
| The yellow corn was waving ready: | |
| I listen’d to a lover’s sang, | 5 |
| 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; | 10 |
| Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, | |
| The place and time I met my Dearie! | |
| Her head upon my throbbing breast, | |
| She, sinking, said, ‘I’m thine for ever!’ | |
| While mony a kiss the seal imprest— | 15 |
| The sacred vow we ne’er should sever.” | |
| |
| The haunt o’ Spring’s the primrose-brae, | |
| The Summer joys the flocks to follow; | |
| How cheery thro’ her short’ning day, | |
| Is Autumn in her weeds o’ yellow; | 20 |
| 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 bosom’s treasure? | |
| |
