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.