Classic Poem

By the ragged hedge and straggling fence,
Beneath the broken willow-tree,
I sat, while Gipsies pitched their tents
Around, and chaffed in Rommany.

The children, who could hardly walk,
Were sent to pick a bit of wood;
Old Liz, so fierce in all her talk,
Spoke as a little infant should.

Ah! when old age grows young again—
And such old age—it's strange to see;
And stranger still to think there should
Be baby-talk in Rommany.

But, as the horses went to graze,
And as the fire began to burn,
Out of the lane, among the strays,
Came our Inspector, grim and stern.

“You know that this won't do,” he cried.
“Be off, or I shall lock you up!”
“If you do that,” old Liz replied,
“Please lock me in a cookin' shop.”

“Pack and be out of this forthwith!
You know you have no business here!”
“No; we hain't got,” said Samuel Smith,
“No business to be Anywhere.”

So wearily they went away,
Yet soon were camped in t'other lane,
And soon they laughed as wild and gay,
And soon the kettle boiled again.

And as they settled down below,
I could but think upon the bliss
'Twould be to many men I know
To move as lightly “out of this:”—

Out of this life of morning calls,
And weary work, and wasted breath;
These prison cells of pictured walls,
Where they are always “bored to death.”

Bored by all kinds of cleverness,
Bored by the beautiful and fair;
By love, and joy, and tenderness;
Or, if not bored, pretend they are.

Oh, what a blessing it would be
To hear some angel cry, “Be gone!”
Some heavenly Inspector C,
Who'd say, “Now none of this—Move on!”