Poems of the Romany:
Here you will find Poems and Lyrics about the Romany.
Here you will find Poems and Lyrics about the Romany.
The white moth to the closing bine,
The bee to the opened clover, And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood Ever the wide world over. Ever the wide world over, lass, Ever the trail held true, Over the world and under the world, And back at the last to you. Out of the dark of the gorgio camp, Out of the grime and the grey (Morning waits at the end of the world), Gipsy, come away! The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp, The red crane to her reed, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, By the tie of a roving breed. The pied snake to the rifted rock, The buck to the stony plain, And the Romany lass to the Romany lad, And both to the road again. Both to the road again, again! Out on a clean sea-track -- Follow the cross of the gipsy trail Over the world and back! Follow the Romany patteran North where the blue bergs sail, And the bows are grey with the frozen spray, And the masts are shod with mail. Follow the Romany patteran Sheer to the Austral Light, Where the besom of God is the wild South wind, Sweeping the sea-floors white. Follow the Romany patteran West to the sinking sun, Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift. And the east and west are one. Follow the Romany patteran East where the silence broods By a purple wave on an opal beach In the hush of the Mahim woods. "The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old." The heart of a man to the heart of a maid -- Light of my tents, be fleet. Morning waits at the end of the world, And the world is all at our feet! The Gipsy Trail, by Rudyard Kipling. The Gipsy's Camp
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! John Clare Gipsy Vans
A Madonna of the Trenches From "Debits and Credits" (1919-1923) Unless you come of the gipsy stock That steals by night and day, Lock your heart with a double lock And throw the key away. Bury it under the blackest stone Beneath your father's hearth, And keep your eyes on your lawful own And your feet to the proper path. Then you can stand at your door and mock When the gipsy vans come through... For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock Should live as the Romany do. Unless you come of the gipsy blood That takes and never spares, Bide content with your given good And follow your own affairs. Plough and harrow and roll your land, And sow what ought to be sowed; But never let loose your heart from your hand, Nor flitter it down the road! Then you can thrive on your boughten food As the gipsy vans come through... For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood Should love as the Romany do. Unless you carry the gipsy eyes That see but seldom weep, Keep your head from the naked skies Or the stars'll trouble your sleep. Watch your moon through your window-pane And take what weather she brews; But don't run out in the midnight rain Nor home in the morning dews. Then you can huddle and shut your eyes As the gipsy vans come through... For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes Should walk as the Romany do. Unless you come of the gipsy race That counts all time the same, Be you careful of Time and Place And Judgment and Good Name: Lose your life for to live your life The way that you ought to do; And when you are finished, your God and your wife And the Gipsies'll laugh at you! Then you can rot in your burying place As the gipsy vans come through... For it isn't reason the Gorgio race Should die as the Romany do. Rudyard Kipling |