Page:Select collection No. XXVIII.pdf/7

 In beauty nane can her surpass,

For she is all in all to me;

A gayer never graced the morn,

A blyther never trode the lea,

Nor one more happy ever born,

Than bonnie Anne of Woodhouselee.

The lark may hail the morn wi' joy,

The blackbird sing the day to rest;

But Annie ever shall employ,

The dear effusions of my breast.

I'll deck a bower in yonder grove,

And weave it off the woodbine tree,

And there enjoy my Annie's love,

The bonny lass of Woodhouselee.

Sweet spring may paint the flowery braes,

And summer scent them with perfanne,

Where Annie spends the happy days,

Among the bowers of yellow broom,

Where blossom gay adorns the bush,

And little warblers wanton flee;

But sweeter is the harmless blush,

Of bonny Annie of Woodhouselee.

Her cheeks are like the new blown rose,

And in her eyes sweet joy is seen,

Her hair in waving ringlets flows,

As she steps owre the dewv green.

Were I a bird I'd pipe a note,

From yonder lofty spreading tree,