Our fire on the turf, and our tent 'neath a tree— Carousing by moonlight, how merry are we! Let the lord boast his castle, the baron his hall; But the house of the Gipsy is widest of all. We may shout o'er our cups, and laugh loud as we will, Till echo rings back from wood, welkin, and hill; No joys seem to us like the joys that are lent To the wanderer's life and the Gipsy's tent.
Some crime and much folly may fall to our lot; We have sins; but pray where is the one who has not? We are rogues, arrant rogues:—yet remember! 'tis rare We take but from those who can very well spare. You may tell us of deeds justly branded with shame; But if great ones heard truth, you could tell them the same; And there's many a king would have less to repent If his throne were as pure as the Gipsy's tent.
Pant ye for beauty?—Oh! where would ye seek Such bloom as is found on the tawny one's cheek? Our limbs, that go bounding in freedom and health, Are worth all your pale faces and coffers of wealth. There are none to control us, we rest or we roam; Our will is our law, and the world is our home: E'en Jove would repine at his lot if he spent A night of wild glee in the Gipsy's tent.
