  Upon the road to Roslyn Town, The road that skirts the bay; Upon the road to Roslyn Town, Upon a summer’s day; I met a dark-haired Gypsy girl, ’Twas afternoon, and late; With haunting eyes she halted me By Thomas Clapham’s gate. She was bent upon the business of A very ancient race; But no mercenary motive marred That sombre Gypsy face. “Oh, maiden beautiful,” she said, “Let’s tarry on the green— What luck upon the Roslyn Road To meet a Gypsy queen.” With amber eyes she read my palm, Then raised them to a stare, “You wed for love, for wealth, for power, And thrice three sons will bear.” She asked me for a silver piece, The amber eyeballs glowed; I gave her all the change I had, Upon the Roslyn Road. She begged from me my hosiery, My gloves, and named my beau; She slipped the Solway sandals from The infantry below; She got from me my garnet ring, She cozened off my gown; She left me like Godiva on The Road to Roslyn Town. Oh, I went home across the lots In the gloaming and in tears, But she didn’t get my earrings, for The bobbed hair hid my ears. |
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