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?