By Allan Stream.
[Written by Burns for Thomson's collection.—"I walked out yesterday evening," says the poet, "with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up 'Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c. as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure."]
By Allan stream I chanced to rove,
While Phœbus sank beyond Benledi,
The winds were whisp'ring through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,
And thought on youthful pleasures many;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang—
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!
O, happy be the woodbine bower;
Nae nightly bogle mak' 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 many a kiss the seal impress'd,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.
The haunt o' spring 's the primrose brae;
The summer joys the flocks to follow,
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,
Is autumn in her weeds of 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?