The Gypsy

O, she was most precious, as the wind’s self was fair.
What did I give her when I had her on my knee?
Red kisses for her coral lips, and a red comb for her hair.
She took my gifts, she took my heart, and fled away from me.

O, but she was fanciful, she found a savage mate,
He scorned her, he spurned her, he drove her from his door;
She cuddled in his inglenook and laughed at all his hate,
She took his curses, took his blows, and never left him more.