I'd like to be a gypsy
With gold rings in my ears,
Along the road to sit and sing,
And not do another thing
For years and years;

A road to dream upon by day,
A fire for dreams at night,
Free to wander far away,
Free to shout and free to play,
Quite impolite.

I'd pitch my tent beside a wall,
All apple trees within,
And if the apples didn't fall,
I wouldn't hesitate at all.
I'd climb—and sin!

But if the weather wasn't fine,
If all the world were rain,
If there weren't anywhere to dine
And goose-flesh quivered up my spine—
I might come home again!