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Deeming that I were better dead...

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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
All Entries 1997 - 2002
All Entries 2002
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Published by Susan on 07/27/2003 (3104 reads)
He was a traveling tinker lad...

He was a traveling tinker lad
And I was a gypsy jade,
Yet never were two so gay and glad,
And a perfect pair we made;
Bruises I've known since life began,
Blows   and the love that smothers:
But I'd rather have the curse of my man,
Than the kisses of all the others.

When Black Mike called me a lousy bitch
Jim was so mad, like hell 'e
Flamed, and Mike lay there in the ditch
With a jack-knife in his belly.
They came the cops and they put away
My bully behind the bars,
And yet he'll lose for a score of years, they say,
The light o' the larky stars.

And yet in spite o' his dismal doom
No garb of woe I'm wearing,
For the seed of him is in my womb,
And son for  him I'm bearing;
And when they swing the prison gate,
And him like blind they're leading,
His boy and I with bliss will wait,
Although our hearts be bleeding.

Then we will take the wildwood track,
And he'll be wae and weary,
But when he gets his manhood back
And beats me I'll be cheery.
And maybe some fowl's neck I'll wring,
And maybe we'll get tipsy;
So by a thorn fire how we'll sing!
What heaven for a gypsy.

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