By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phoebus sunk beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready ;
I listen'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthful pleasures monie,
And ay 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 monie a kiss the seal imprest,
The sacred vow we ne'er should sever!
 
The haunt of spring's the primrose brae.
The Simmer joy's the flocks to follow.
How cheery through 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 through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ?