Classic Poem

The kitchen fire that wakes so soon
And has to work so hard,
Would rather be the fire that burns
Behind the nursery guard.

The nursery fire that burns all day,
And keeps alive so late,
Would rather be the pretty fire
Within the parlour grate.

The parlour fire, so swept and fine,
Would rather be, I know,
The gipsy fire that sparks away
With all the winds that blow.

The gipsy fire burns out-of-doors
In places wild and free;
I'd rather be a gipsy fire
Than any fire, says she!