written in 1793
By Allan-side I chanc'd to rove, While Phebus sank beyond Benledi; The winds were whispering thro' the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony; And ay 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.