THE GIPSY MOTHER.
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THE GIPSY MOTHER.
Gipsy, see, with fading light,
How the camp-fire blazes bright,
Where thy roving people steal
Gladly to their evening meal.
Tawny urchins, torn and bare,
And the wrinkled crone is there
Who pretends with scowling eye
Into fate's decrees to pry,
And the credulous to show
Golden fortunes, free from woe.
Why beneath the hedge-row lone,
Sit'st thou on that broken stone,
Heedless of the whoop and call
To their merry festival?
Masses rich of raven hair
Curtain o'er thy forehead rare,
Thou' lt be missed amid their glee,
Wherefore stay'st thou?
Ah! I see
On a babe thy dark eye resting,
