Reckon her luck has been a stinger!
She'd bolt if I held up my finger;
But tho' I'm rough, and wild, and free,
Take a Saint's leavings—no not me!
You've heerd of Vampires—them that rise
At dead o' night with flaming eyes,
And into women's beds'll creep
To suck their blood when they're asleep.
I guess these Saints are jest the same,
Sucking the life out is their game;