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　　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? Poems and Songs of Robert Burns