My Sandy gied to me a ring,
Was a' beset wi' diamonds fine;
But I gied him a far better thing,
I gied my heart in pledge o' his ring.

My Sandy O, my Sandy O,
My bony, bony Sandy O;
Tho' the love that I owe to thee I dare na show,
Yet I love my love in secret my Sandy O.

My Sandy brak a piece o' gowd,
While down his cheeks the saut tears row'd;
He took a hauf and gied it to me,
And I'll keep it till the hour I die.
My Sandy O &c.

Thou Cause and Subject, once of Wit, and Love!
Whose Love alone, cou'd Mens good Sense improve;
For, tho' our Love of other Women does,
Good Wits, and all their Good Parts, more expose
Our Love of you, but more our Reason shows;
Since Man, in you, can at the same time, find
The Pleasure of the Body, and the Mind;
Once, to your Shame, your Parts to all were shown,
But now, (tho' a more Public Woman grown,)
You gain more Reputation in the Town;
Grow Public, to your Honour, not your Shame,
As more Men now you please, gain much more Fame;

Love, thou has train'd me in a school severe.
‘This man,’ thou said'st, ‘knows somewhat of my lore,
But not enough; lo! I will teach him more.’
So Sorrow came, and sojourn'd with me here,
Wearing the form and face to me most dear.
Then learn'd I laws of thine, but guess'd before,
The hard, hard lesson conning o'er and o'er,
While on the page fell many a bitter tear.
Still Self within me feebly strove; but when
Death came and hid my angel from my sight—
Not from my soul—Self died, and rose again
Newborn, in one joint being blent with her.

Oh mistress mine! where are you roaming?
Oh! stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.

What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies no plenty;
Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure. II, iii

If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die. I, i
That strain again! It had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor. Enough, no more.
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, naught enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price

How sweet the transient dream and reverie,
Like twilight's purple wing, sank on my heart
In that fair season when I sat by Thee,
List'ning thy song that shamed Apollo's art!
Love breathes upon my memory, and I see
The scene within my mind lost in time past,
The ceaseless sun descending in the sea,
The huge dark waves against the boulders cast,
The solitude of nature, if such be,
The momentary lull, broke by the roar
Of billows, or the sea-birds' noisy glee
Around the time-sapped crags and gullies hoar;
While thou wert by me: still in these I find

The bright blue wave were sad and drear
Without its sea-bird white:
The rose would die, did it not hear
The soft breeze sing at night:
Lest heaven should be the storm-wind's prey,
Love made the grand sun shine:
Lest clouds should cover all my day,
He made thy splendour mine!

Love sent the sweetest thing on earth
To charm me and to chain;
To thrill my soul to tenderest mirth,
Or—pierce my heart with pain!
Love bade the blue sea kiss the land,
The gold shore kiss the sea,
Then made the marvel of thine hand,
And brought my queen to me.

Were you to come,
With your clear, gray eyes
As calmly placid as, in summer's heat,
At noontide lie the sultry skies;
With your dark, brown hair
As smoothly quiet as the leaves
When stirs no cooling breath of air;
And shorn of smile, your full, red lips
Prest firmly close as the chaliced bud,
Before the nectar-quaffing bee ere sips;
I would not know you.
I would not love you.

But should you come,
With your love-bright eyes
Dancing gaily as, on summer's eve,
The stars adown the Western skies;
With your hair, wind-caught

The may bush smells sae very sweet
The crimson threeds sae fine
The chaffinch builds her nest sae neat
& shepherd's sit to dine
Aye dear o'me I love to see
The sweetly scented white thorn tree.

The leaves are green & very green
Though bunches o' the may
Whiten till scarcely one is seen
For a whole summers day
Aye dear o' me I love to see
Hedges all white & love the awthorn tree.

It spreads above the little pond
& hides the thrushes nest
The hedge is whiter still beyond
With moonlight on its breast

The furrows of life Time is plowing,
But we mourn not the Spring which departs,
For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,
Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.

The sunshine of virtue and beauty
Shall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;
The warm dews of mercy and duty
Shall moisten the tractable loam.

Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!
Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!
'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,
But a short, pleasant way from the mill.

But fondness and faith will be growing,
Be the sky clear or cloudy above.