And round the common feeds;
The fox that tracks the woodland bounds,
And in the thicket breeds;
These are the neighbours where we dwell,
And all the guests we see,
That share and love the quiet well
Of gipsy liberty.

The elements are grown our friends,
And leave our huts alone;
The thunder-bolt, that shakes and rends
The cotter's house of stone,
Flies harmless by the blanket roof,
Where the winds may burst and blow,
For our camps, tho' thin, are tempest proof,
We reck not rain and snow.

May the lot we've met our lives befall,
And nothing worse attend;
So here's success to gipsies all,
And every gipsy's friend.
And while the ass that bears our camp
Can find a common free,
Around old England's heaths we'll tramp
In gipsy liberty.




PEGGY BAND