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?