A wandering 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 rooms so fine, nor gay attire,
Amid our humble shed appear,
Nor beds of down, nor blazing fire,
At night our shiv'ring limbs to cheer. 

Alas!   No friends come near our cot,
The Red-breasts only find the way,  -- 
Who give their all,  --  a simple note,  -- 
At peep of morn, and parting day. 

But fortunes here I come to tell:  
Then yield me, gentle Sir, your hand;  -- 
Amid those lines what thousands dwell!
And bless me what a heap of land! 

This 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.
(holding out her hand.)