How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp, My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp, Where the real effigy of midnight hags, With tawny smoked flesh and tattered rags, Uncouth-brimmed hat, and weather-beaten cloak, Neath the wild shelter of a knotty oak, Along the greensward uniformly pricks Her pliant bending hazel's arching sticks: While round-topt bush, or briar-entangled hedge, Where flag-leaves spring beneath, or ramping sedge, Keeps off the bothering bustle of the wind, And give the best retreat she hopes to find. How oft I've bent me oer her fire and smoke, To hear her gibberish tale so quaintly spoke, While the old Sybil forged her boding clack, Twin imps the meanwhile bawling at her back; Oft on my hand her magic coin's been struck, And hoping chink, she talked of morts of luck: And still, as boyish hopes did first agree, Mingled with fears to drop the fortune's fee, I never failed to gain the honours sought, And Squire and Lord were purchased with a groat. But as man's unbelieving taste came round, She furious stampt her shoeless foot aground, Wiped bye her soot-black hair with clenching fist, While through her yellow teeth the spittle hist, Swearing by all her lucky powers of fate, Which like as footboys on her actions wait, That fortune's scale should to my sorrow turn, And I one day the rash neglect should mourn; That good to bad should change, and I should be Lost to this world and all eternity; That poor as Job I should remain unblest:-- (Alas, for fourpence how my die is cast!) Of not a hoarded farthing be possesst, And when all's done, be shoved to hell at last! _Impromptu_ "Where art thou wandering, little child?" I said to one I met to-day.-- She pushed her bonnet up and smiled, "I'm going upon the green to play: Folks tell me that the May's in flower, That cowslip-peeps are fit to pull, And I've got leave to spend an hour To get this little basket full." --And thou'st got leave to spend an hour! My heart repeated.--She was gone; --And thou hast heard the thorn's in flower, And childhood's bliss is urging on: Ah, happy child! thou mak'st me sigh, This once as happy heart of mine, Would nature with the boon comply, How gladly would I change for thine. _The Wood-cutter's Night Song_ Welcome, red and roundy sun, Dropping lowly in the west; Now my hard day's work is done, I'm as happy as the best. Joyful are the thoughts of home, Now I'm ready for my chair, So, till morrow-morning's come, Bill and mittens, lie ye there! Though to leave your pretty song, Little birds, it gives me pain, Yet to-morrow is not long, Then I'm with you all again. If I stop, and stand about, Well I know how things will be, Judy will be looking out Every now-and-then for me. So fare ye well! and hold your tongues, Sing no more until I come; They're not worthy of your songs That never care to drop a crumb.