I saw three gypsy men, one day,
Camped in a field together,
As my wagon went its weary way,
All over the sand and heather.
And one of the three whom I saw there
Had his fiddle just before him,
And played for himself a stormy air,
While the evening-red shone o'er him.
And the second puffed his pipe again
Serenely and undaunted,
As if he at least of earthly men
Had all the luck that he wanted.
In sleep and comfort the last was laid,
In a tree his cymbal {238} lying,
Over its strings the breezes played,
O'er his heart a dream went flying.
Ragged enough were all the three,
Their garments in holes and tatters;
But they seemed to defy right sturdily
The world and all worldly matters.
Thrice to the soul they seemed to say,
When earthly trouble tries it,
How to fiddle, sleep it, and smoke it away,
And so in three ways despise it.
And ever anon I look around,
As my wagon onward presses,
At the gypsy faces darkly browned,
And the long black flying tresses.