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?