song—by allan stream

    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,

    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, 'i'm thine for ever!'

    while mony a kiss the seal imprest—

    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;

    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?