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.


This poem is in the public domain.