The sparkling rum in her dark brown hand.
“Nancy, oh, Nan! don’t you fear to stray,
Before the morn, on the king’s highway,
When the sons of London are shiv’ring cold,
And may run away with the bottle you hold?”
“Get out, for I don’t feel the least alarm,
I’m too ugly and old for to do me harm;
Though they love young girls, and a plentiful store,
Yet they’ll look on a faded old woman no more!”
On she went to the famed Turnstile,