My pretty Paistin is my heart’s desire,
Yet I am shrunken to skin and bone.
sibby. Why would they call me Paistin?
tramp. And why wouldn’t they? Would you wish them to put your right name in a song, and your man ready to knock the brains of any man will as much as look your side of the road?
sibby. Well, maybe so.
tramp. I was standing by the man that made the song, and he writing it with an old bit of a carpenter’s pencil, and the tears running down—
My pretty Paistin is my heart’s desire,
Yet am I shrunken to skin and bone
For all my toil has had for its hire
Is drinking her health when lone, alone—
[sibby takes a fork and rises to take out the chicken. tramp puts his hand to stop her and goes on:
Oh I would think that I had my fee,
Though I am shrunken to bone and skin,
Could I but drink, my love on my knee
Between two barrels at the inn.
[sibby half rises again. tramp puts his hand upon her hand.
tramp. Wait now till you hear the end [sings]:
Nine nights I lay in longing sore
Between two bushes under the rain;
