Where waving pines salute the skies, 
And silver streams meand'ring flow,
Where verdant mountains gently rise, 
Thus Sandy sung his tale of woe:
Ah! Kitty, cruel, perjur'd maid, 
Why hast thou stole my heart away,
Why thus forsaken am I laid, 
To spend in tears and sighs the day?

Thus Sandy sung, but turning round, 
Beheld sweet Nancy's injur'd shade;
He trembling saw, he shook, and groan'd, 
Fear and dismay his guilt betray'd:
"Ah! hapless man, thy perjur'd vow, 
"Was to thy Nancy's heart a grave;
"The damps of death bedew'd my brow, 
"While you the dying maid could save!"

Thus spake the vision, and withdrew; 
From Sandy's cheeks the crimson fled;
Guilt and despair their arrows threw, 
And now behold the traitor dead.
Remember, swains, my artless strain, 
To plighted faith be ever true, 
And let no injur'd maid complain,
She finds false Sandy live in you.