Classic Poem

Walking about in a village, I came
On a wretched little hovel once,
Where was living a lonely Gipsy dame,
Who went by the name of Phœbe Bunce.

“How are you, mother?” And as I spoke
I lifted my hat from off my head;
(If you want to talk to Gipsy folk,
You must act like a gentleman born and bred)

“My dear old lady,” I asked, “how's this?
A house isn't surely the place for you;
Where have you left your folk? I miss
Your tent; why, where have you put that to?”

“I'm a poor old woman, and all alone
I live in my old age as you see;
I lost my husband long years agone,
And as for tents, there is none for me.

“But two dear daughters I still have got,
One of 'em's married an English lad;
Ah, sir! but hers is a hard, hard lot,
For the wretched fellow he treats her bad.

“The love as I bears to her is small,
Though to think of her sorrow I often weeps;
But the one as I loves the best of all,
In a lonely churchyard, sir, she sleeps.”