Father and I were gypsies.―
We tried to lose our way
Among the woodland mystery,
When we'd a holiday.
My hand about his finger,
We followed brook and dell.
No need to voice our ecstasy―
The robins told it well.
His love I took for granted,
Owned every dear caress,
Nor dreame'd of how a little girl
Would feel when fatherless.
Now I, poor lonely gypsey,
Roam wood and hill and blue;
But no one loves them all with me
As Father used to do.
