Page:Seven English popular songs.pdf/6



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
 * light,
 * 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 well And the terrors and joys in her bosom that swell
 * Are too mighty for nature to bear.