Select collection No. XXVIII/The lass of Woodhouselee

The Lass of Woodhouselee.

Young Annie was the sweetest lass,
⁠That e'er pu'd slaes by Woodhouselee,
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,
That grows before the happy cot,
⁠Where dwells sweet Annie of Woodhouselee.

I'd rise up wi' the early morn,
⁠And hail her with my sweetest lays,
When she gangs barefoot to the burn,
⁠To spread abread her mother's claes.
The heather blooms on Pentland hills,
⁠The rising sun blinks o'er the sea,
While Annie breathes the fragrant gales,
⁠On yon burnside by Woodhouselee.

Come gentle peace, thou heavenly friend,
⁠And soother of terestrial woe,
Do thou thy olive branch extend,
⁠Whenever love does find a foe;
Till joy and harmony unite,
⁠And Annie’s love wi' mine agree,
Then I'll enclasp my heart’s delight,
⁠The bonny lass of Woodhouselee.

FINIS.