O Sandy, why leaves thou thy Nelly to mourn?
Thy Presence cou’d ease me,
When naething can please me:
Now dowie I sigh on the bank of the burn,
Or throw the wood, laddie, until thou return.
Tho’ woods now are bonny, and mornings are clear,
While lav’rocks are singing,
And primroses springing;
Yet nane of them pleases my eye or my ear,
When throw the wood, Laddie, ye dinna appear.
That I am forsaken, some spare no to tell:
I’m fash’d wi’ their scorning,
Baith ev’ning and morning;
Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi’ a knell,
When throw the wood, Laddie, I wander my sell.
Then stay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away,
But quick as an arrow,
Haste here to thy marrow,
Wha’s living in langour, till that happy day,
When throw the wood, Laddie, we’ll dance, sing and play.