Poems (Terry, 1861)/December xxxi.

by Rose Terry Cooke

DECEMBER XXXI.

There goes an old Gaffer over the hill,
 Thieving, and old, and gray;
He walks the green world, his wallet to fill,
 And carries good spoil away.

Into his bag he popped a king;
 After him went a friar,
Many a lady, with gay gold ring,
 Many a knight and squire.

He carried my true-love far away,
 He stole the dog at my door;
The wicked old Gaffer, thieving and gray,
 He'll never come by any more.

My little darling, white and fair,
 Sat in the door and spun;
He caught her fast by her silken hair,
 Before the child could run.

He stole the florins out of my purse,
 The sunshine out of mine eyes;
He stole my roses, and, what is worse,
 The gray old Gaffer told lies.

He promised fair when he came by,
 And laughed as he slipped away,
For every promise turned out a lie;
 But his tale is over to-day.

Good-by, old Gaffer! you'll come no more,
 You've done your worst for me.
The next gray robber will pass my door,
 There's nothing to steal or see!