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 wildwood 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 primrosebrae,
    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?