By Allan Stream.

A poem by Robert Burns


By Allan stream I chanced to rove
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready;
I listened to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony:
And aye 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?

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