Poems (Terry, 1861)/December xxxi.
DECEMBER XXXI.
There goes an old Gaffer over the hill, Thieving, and old, and gray;He walks the green world, his wallet to fill, And carries good spoil away.
Into his bag he popped a king; After him went a friar,Many a lady, with gay gold ring, Many a knight and squire.
He carried my true-love far away, He stole the dog at my door;The wicked old Gaffer, thieving and gray, He'll never come by any more.
My little darling, white and fair, Sat in the door and spun;He caught her fast by her silken hair, Before the child could run.
He stole the florins out of my purse, The sunshine out of mine eyes;He stole my roses, and, what is worse, The gray old Gaffer told lies.
He promised fair when he came by, And laughed as he slipped away,For every promise turned out a lie; But his tale is over to-day.
Good-by, old Gaffer! you'll come no more, You've done your worst for me.The next gray robber will pass my door, There's nothing to steal or see!