The Road to Roslyn

Upon the road to Roslyn Town,
The road that skirts the bay;
Upon the road to Roslyn Town,
Upon a summer’s day;

I met a dark-haired Gypsy girl,
’Twas afternoon, and late;
With haunting eyes she halted me
By Thomas Clapham’s gate.

She was bent upon the business of
A very ancient race;
But no mercenary motive marred
That sombre Gypsy face.

“Oh, maiden beautiful,” she said,
“Let’s tarry on the green—
What luck upon the Roslyn Road
To meet a Gypsy queen.”

With amber eyes she read my palm,
Then raised them to a stare,
“You wed for love, for wealth, for power,
And thrice three sons will bear.”

She asked me for a silver piece,
The amber eyeballs glowed;
I gave her all the change I had,
Upon the Roslyn Road.

She begged from me my hosiery,
My gloves, and named my beau;
She slipped the Solway sandals from
The infantry below;

She got from me my garnet ring,
She cozened off my gown;
She left me like Godiva on
The Road to Roslyn Town.

Oh, I went home across the lots
In the gloaming and in tears,
But she didn’t get my earrings, for
The bobbed hair hid my ears.