A wand'ring gypsey, Sirs, am I,
From Norwood, where we oft complain,
With many a tear and many a sigh,
Of blust'ring winds and rushing rain.
No costly rooms nor gay attire
Within our humble shed appear;
No beds of down or blazing fire,
At night our shivering limbs to cheer. 

Alas! No friend comes near our cot;
The redbreasts only find the way.
Who give there all, a simple note,
At peep of morn and parting day.
But fortunes here I come to tell,
They yield me, gentle Sir, your hand:
Within these lines what thousands dwell!
And, bless me, what a heap of land!

It surely, Sir, must pleasing be
To hold such wealth in every line!
Try, pray now try, if you can see
A little treasure lodg'd in mine.
Yon sun that pours the lightsome day,
And gilds the palace and the farm,
Can never miss the kindly ray
That makes the hapless vagrant warm.