None care for us, for none care we,
And where we list we roam,
And merry boys we gipsies be,
Though the wild woods are our home.

And come what will brings no dismay;
Our minds are ne'er perplext;
For if to-day is a swaly day,
We meet with luck the next.
And thus we sing and kiss our mates,
While our chorus still shall be,--
Bad luck to tyrant magistrates,
And the gipsies' camp still free.

To mend old pans and bottom chairs
Around the towns we tramp,
Then a day or two our purse repairs,
And plenty fills our camp;
And our song we sing, and our fiddles sound
Their catgut harmony,
While echo fills the woods around
With gipsy liberty.

The green grass is our softest bed,
The sun our clock we call,
The nightly sky hangs over head,
Our curtains, house, and all.
Tho' houseless while the wild winds blow,
Our joys are uncontroll'd;
We barefoot dance through Winter's snow,