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!