by Bob Dylan



As I went out one morning

To breathe the air around Tom Paine's,

I spied the fairest damsel

That ever did walk in chains.

I offer'd her my hand,

She took me by the arm.

I knew that very instant,

She meant to do me harm.



"Depart from me this moment,"

I told her with my voice.

Said she, "But I don't wish to,"

Said I, "But you have no choice."

"I beg you, sir," she pleaded

From the corners of her mouth,

"I will secretly accept you

And together we'll fly south."



Just then Tom Paine, himself,

Came running from across the field,

Shouting at this lovely girl

And commanding her to yield.

And as she was letting go her grip,

Up Tom Paine did run,

"I'm sorry, sir," he said to me,

"I'm sorry for what she's done."