THE GIPSY CHILD.
He sprung to life in a crazy tent,
Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;
Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands
That soothed his wailings, and swathed his bands.
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,
No snowy robe for the new-born heir;
But the mother wept, and the father smiled.
With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child.
Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;
Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands
That soothed his wailings, and swathed his bands.
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,
No snowy robe for the new-born heir;
But the mother wept, and the father smiled.
With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child.
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