The tale which I send, will, I’m sure, hit your fancy,
Of Sandy the Captain, and kitchen-maid Nancy;
The youth, by friend Colin’s good liquor made gay,
Met the damsel, and brimful of frolic and play,
He romped with, and kissed her, and tho’ he’d his gun,
In vain the poor lassie attempted to run;
She pouted and scolded, and liked not the joke,
And at least, in the struggle, his finger she broke.
That a swain with a look so demure could deceive?
We ladies, kind creatures, devoid of suspicion,
Were each very ready to play the physician;
By Mackay, his sore finger in spirits was laid,
And a bag, by my orders, was carefully made.
For it neither by one, nor the other was thought
That with Nancy, instead of a gate he had fought.
But now the poor maiden has told us the truth,
As we cannot ourselves have a laugh at the youth;
We entreat that from us, you the hero would tell,
In his frolicks he ne’er should forget to bribe well;
For had but his kisses been seasoned with gold,
How he got his lame finger — had never been told.
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