I will be a gypsy—
Roam, roam, and roam.
I will sing a song that none has sung!
I will sing to the sky,
I will sing to the winds,
I’ll sing to my red clouds!
I’ll roam, roam, and roam—
King of the lands through which I roam.
By day, the shade trees will be my tent. By night, the stars shall be my candles Twinkling in the firmament;
I will call the moon, then, to be my lamp Lighting my silver, skiey camp.
Oh! I will be a gypsy— Roam, roam, and roam.
I’ll eat the food which chance may bring; I’ll drink from crystal sparkling springs; I’ll doff my cap and off will go.
Like a wayward brook of long ago,
I will roll o’er the green
And scatter joy petals from my heart
To birds, leaves, winds, hills—and then depart
To strange and still stranger lands, from East to West. Oh! I will be a gypsy—
Roam, roam, and roam!
But always, when I lay my head to rest, I’ll sing to Thee my gypsy prayer,
And find Thee, always, everywhere.
