Seven English Popular Songs/The Gipsy Wanderer
THE GIPSY WANDERER.
'Twas night and the farmer his fireside near, O'er a pipe quaff'd his ale stout and old;The hinds were in bed, when a voice struck his ear—Let me in, I beseech you—just so ran the prayer— Let me in, I am dying with cold.
To his servant the farmer cry'd—Sue, move thy feet, And admit the poor wretch from the storm,For our chimney will not lose a jot of its heat, Although the night-wand'rer may there find seat, And beside our wood embers grow warm.
At that instant a Gipsy girl, humble in pace, Bent before him his pity to crave—He, starting, exclaim'd—wicked fiend, quit this place—A parent's curse light on the whole Gipsy race They have bowed me almost to the grave!
Good Sir, as our tribe pass'd the church-yard below, I just paus'd the turf grave to survey;I fancied the spot where my mother lies low,When suddenly came on a thick fall of snow, And I know not a step of my way.
This is craft, cried the farmer, if I judge aright I suspect thy curst gang may be near;Thou would'st open the door to the ruffians o night;Thy eyes o'er the plunder now rove with delight, And on me with sly treachery leer!
With a shriek on the floor the young Gipsy girl fell! Help! cried Susan, your child to uprear!Your long stolen child!—she remembers you wellAnd the terrors and joys in her bosom that swell Are too mighty for nature to bear.