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!8
“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.”16
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?24