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There was a tinker lived of late |
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Who walked the streets of Rye |
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He bore his pack upon his back |
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Patches and plugs did cry |
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O I have brass within my bag |
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My hammer's full of metal. |
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And as to skill I well can clout |
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And mend a broken kettle |
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A maiden did this tinker meet |
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And to him boldly say |
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For sure, my kettle hath much need |
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If you will pass my way |
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She took the tinker by the hand |
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And led him to her door |
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Says she my kettle I will show |
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And you can clout it sure |
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For patching and plugging is his delight |
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His work goes forward day and night |
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Fair maid says he |
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Your kettle's cracked |
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The cause is plainly told |
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There hath so many nails been drove |
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Mine own could not take hold |
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Says she it hath endured some knocks |
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and more it may i know |
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I'm sure a large large nail will hold |
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If it was struck in so |
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For patching and plugging is his delight |
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His work goes forward, day and night |
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