And her full, rosy bosom with rapture will beat,
When again, and no more to be parted, we meet.
My lovely young Fanny, my own darling Fanny,
My dear, modest Fanny, no flower is so sweet.
So father may grumble, and mother may cry,
And sister may scold—I know very well why;
’Tis that beauty and virtue are all Fanny’s store,
That while we are rich, she, alas! is quite poor.
My winsome young Fanny, my true, faithful Fanny,
My own darling Fanny, I’ll love you the more.