Classic Poem

Once as my carriage wearily dragg'd
Over heath and sandy mound,
I saw three gipsies lying alone,
On a slope of pasture ground.

The first in his hands a fiddle clasp'd,
All to himself he play'd;
Play'd to himself a fiery tune,
In the glow that the sunset made.

The second held his pipe in his mouth,
Follow'd the smoke with his eyes;
Happy as tho' from the whole round earth
His wants naught more did prize!

Pleasantly lay the third asleep,
His cymbal hung on a bough;
Over it softly the breezes ran,
A dream went over his brow.

Tatters and patches, many-hued,
Bore on their clothes all three;
But they snapt their fingers at fortune and fate,
And laugh'd at misery!

Threefold unto me they proved,
When life its scourge applies,
How we fiddle it, smoke it, and sleep it,
And it thrice despise.

After the gipsies long I looked,
As slowly we did fare:
After the dark-brown faces flush'd,
The coal-black locks of hair.