The Gipsy's Home. A Glee.

Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master LONGHURST.--Composed by Mr. ROOKE.


We, who the wide world make our home;
The barren heath our cheerful bed;
Careless o'er mount and moor we roam,
And never tears of sorrow shed.
But merrily, O! Merrily, O!
Through this world of care we go.

Love, that a palace left in tears,
Flew to our houseless feast of mirth:
For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers,
The heaven alone that's found on earth!
Then merrily, O! Merrily, O!
Through this world of care we go.

Thomas Gent

Thomas Gent was an 18th-century English writer, printer, and bookseller, known predominantly for his historical works. Despite facing numerous financial difficulties, his passion for printing never waned, leading him to chronicle his experiences and the events of his time with a distinct personal touch. His works offer a vivid depiction of 18th-century English life, ensuring his place in literary history.

Thomas Gent

Sonnet. In The Manner Of The Moderns.

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Sonnet.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

On The Beautiful Portrait Of Mrs. Foreman, As Pandora.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

Sheridan.

Thomas Gent, Simple Poetry

English

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The Gipsy's Song

    The gipsy's life is a merry life,
    And ranting boys we be;
    We pay to none or rent or tax,
    And live untith'd and free.
    None care for us, for none care we,
    And where we list we roam,
    And merry boys we gipsies be,
    Though the wild woods are our home.

    And come what will brings no dismay;
    Our minds are ne'er perplext;
    For if to-day is a swaly day,
    We meet with luck the next.
    And thus we sing and kiss our mates,
    While our chorus still shall be,--
    Bad luck to tyrant magistrates,
    And the gipsies' camp still free.

    To mend old pans and bottom chairs
    Around the towns we tramp,
    Then a day or two our purse repairs,
    And plenty fills our camp;
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John Clare

Gipsy Too

If they missed my face in Farmers Arms
When the landlord lit the lamp,
They would grin and say in their country way,
Oh! hes down at the Gipsy camp!
But theyd read of things in the Daily Mail
That the wild Australians do,
And I cared no day what the world might say,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a mongrel lot,
And a thieving lot and sly!
But Id dined on fowls in the far-off south,
And a mongrel lot was I.
Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a roving gang,
And a sulky, silent crew!
But they managed a smile and a word for me,
For I came of the Gipsies too.

And the old queen looked in my palm one day,
And a shrewd old dame was she:
My pretty young gent, you may say your say,
You may laugh your laugh at me;
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Henry Lawson

Here In Our Fairy Bowers We Dwell. A Glee.

Here, in our fairy bowers, we dwell,
Women our idol, life's best treasure!
Echo enchanted joys to tell,
Our feast of laugh, of love, and pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,
Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?

Eternal mirth and sunshine reign,
For grief we cannot find the leisure;
Night's social gods have banish'd pain,
Morn lights us to increasing pleasure.
Say, is not this then bliss divine,
Beauty's smiles and rosy wine?
Here in our fairy bowers, &c.

Thomas Gent

The Gypsying

I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young--
On a blue October morning
Beneath a cloudless sky,
When all the world's a vibrant harp
The winds o' God have strung,
And gay as tossing torches the maples light us by;
The rising sun before us--a golden bubble swung--
I wish we might go gypsying one day the while we're young.

I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old--
To step it with the wild west wind
And sing the while we go,
Through far forgotten orchards
Hung with jewels red and gold;
Through cool and fragrant forests where never sun may show,
To stand upon a high hill and watch the mist unfold--
I wish we might go gypsying one day before we're old.

I wish we might go gypsying, dear lad, the while we care--
The while w...

Theodosia Garrison

The Songs of Home.

Oh, sing once more those dear, familiar lays,
    Whose gliding measure every bosom thrills,
And takes my heart back to the happy days
    When first I sang them on my native hills!
With the fresh feelings of the olden times,
    I hear them now upon a foreign shore--
The simple music and the artless rhymes!
    Oh, sing those dear, familiar lays once more,
        Those cheerful lays of other days--
    Oh, sing those cheerful lays once more!

Oh, sing once more those joy-provoking strains,
    Which, half forgotten, in my memory dwell;
They send the life-blood bounding thro' my veins,
    And linger round me like a fairy spell.
The songs of home are to the human heart
    Far dearer than the notes that song-birds pour,
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An English Girl

A wonderful joy our eyes to bless,
In her magnificent comeliness,
Is an English girl of eleven stone two,
And five foot ten in her dancing shoe!
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The "field" tails off and the muffs diminish -
Over the hedges and brooks she bounds -
Straight as a crow, from find to finish.
At cricket, her kin will lose or win -
She and her maids, on grass and clover,
Eleven maids out - eleven maids in -
(And perhaps an occasional "maiden over").
Go search the world and search the sea,
Then come you home and sing with me
There's no such gold and no such pearl
As a bright and beautiful English girl!

With a ten-mile spin she stretches her limbs,
She golfs, she punts, she rows, she swims -
She plays, she sings, she dances,...

William Schwenck Gilbert