I journeyed to new England was in the spring n morn
the Grass was growing green today and the chaffinch sang his tune
i talked to all the gaffers there and watched the zunners play
the cartwheels were a rolling still and the hare was in the hay
i strolled across to the bogs where vardo wheels sank deep
where reeds grew within the damp and Augustus drew the scenes
the hills across to lodge were high and the fuzz it grew so sharp
there were adders in the heather than and the gypsies lit their lamps
across from heavenly bottom the crew were stewing meat
there were sounds of gypsy laughter from shawls down to bare feet
the cones were thick and brittle on top commons rich new downs
where rabbits ran from Fox's and sounds of farmers guns
then i journeyed over to bourne bottom where folki rarely cried
where soldiers signed their papers and young mothers sat n cried
the heather it grew plentiful and the dartford warbler chirped
whilst common gorgios laughed and the battles won their corpse
the vardos rolled along the tracks from Poole to alderney
whilst gypsy song and stories long told of better days
whilst clay was thick and sand was red and sparrows sang for free
i counted hopes amongst the dopes who gave their land for free
the wandering packs of traveling jacks who worked upon the soil
for pittance then was lost to whim and soldiers lost at war
the blackbird sang his melody and the lizard squirmed so free
where Gypsy life and pikes own wife was making stew for tea
amongst the gorse and unrehearsed the youth they sang her songs
whilst Caroline Hughes was lost in blues amongst the songs of poets on the vine
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