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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?