By Allan-side I chanc'd to rove,
While Phebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering thro' the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang
O dearly do I lo'e 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 Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, thro' her shortening 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.