John and the gypsies
They say that John Augustus was fascinated by Gypsies that's why he drew them every day some in their fine and dandy clothes some naked in the hay
He was a gypsy roving guy with his paint brush and his pen he lived upon the canford common lands with his vardo set in clay n dens
He painted our house heather view with its roses around the door its red and white bricks of the land where Crusoe came to call
They say that whistler was a friend of his along with lyodd George he sketched the chavvys with charcoal then guess he knew rogers Sid
The famous London art museum stores his scenes to see some are of the common gypsy folki others lost at sea
His wife was Ida and his sister Gwen plus all his lover maids they lived within the manor road near to wally cave
The art studio was made of glass though his farm like his life was mean he kept a lot of pigs you see plus goats that he would wean
His looks were dark and ugly then with his long coat and his beard some folks said he was eccentric others thought him weird
The art world thought him master stroke with his flair of all things bright he painted girls bare in the naked light but i guess he was alright.
Travelling man
The old gypsy poets they lived on their wits they lived off the land and on pony's did sit they rode the roads daily and sang of the day when the rabbits did run and twer hares in the hay
The old fairground great wheel keeps spinning around with the lights and the music the organs sweet sounds
The darts they did throw and the cars they did roar when the stars were a shining the nights on the moors
the old songs are best our granfer did say that twer good in the brambles where rabbits did play
Where church bells did ring to welcome the day as the gypsy wrote verse and went on his way.
Gypsy reel
Deep down in cuckoo bottom nearby the foxes hole i spied some ragged gypsies a going for a stroll
A lady smoked a pipe there a sweetheart skipped a reel a pony in the garden amongst the daffodils
The caravans were tall then as the master played his tune the accordion was playing that summer afternoon
The dogs they are a barking must be someones there about i saw a game of cards and more a tarot took a chance
There at cuckoo bottom not far from waterloo the queen of Gypsies smiled at me the maidens danced a reel
We ate rabbit stew and dumplings hedgehog pie and bran i sure was happy then in my little durzet town
Just two miles from new England were turbary birch did grow they built their homes inside the clay many years ago
The heather springs were fancy just like the road nearby where uncles and aunties all ate rabbit pie
The eyes were rare and awesome their fortunes all were told with one eye on the master craft another on that pot of gold.
Gypsy's on canford heath
The caravans glory is written in sand like the dreams from the heath lands the lonely steel bands the chimes of the clock and the walk to the door the preachers and lovers unite in the hall
The ponies that run there free on the moors the old toothless ladies with wise words so pure the poetry reads there like the new dawning sun with cows in the meadows and rabbits a run
The work in the factory and the times not your own with hours spent in fashion and no wheres to roam there a church bell that chimes there and a scene for to see with lonely sidewalks and a stroll to the sea
The organist plays his music so sweet with chords of pure love and honey to eat there's food on the table and wagons that roll there's an old gypsy saying left out in the cold
So beat the drum lowly and ply the flute fine with cherished emotions and words on the vine there's a gypsy boy playing out on the heath but its only a childhood left a cutting his teeth.
That's the gypsy life
Heather sprigs and pollen bee silver birch and tall pine tree wagon wheels rolling fancy free that's the gypsy life for me
Yellow flowers of the furze sandy trails where sounds not heard quiet havens beneath the sun where deer and fox and rabbits run
Dogs in packs and fires a lit horses ponies bridals and bit pegs of wood and tins of pan the dark dark tan of the gypsy man
Stews of rabbit hedgehog pie herbal potions for the eye floral sprays kissed by the sun bare foot children free to run
Carts gayly painted by hand dance and song and merry bands with sparks that fly into the open sky and miles of heather-ed countryside
On the move by ordered law no regard to rich or poor vagabond diddy coy common vested one and all all branded by mans laws
Roll the wagon wheels one more time drink the freedom with the wine when men were free to taste the vine and run the winding whispering windy trails so let us dance just one more time and listen to the gypsy ryhme.
The flowing poem is largely based on a traditional gypsy verse.
A Romany Rye She was a Romany rye a true didikai she gave you the eye she built all her castles beneath the blue sky
She never paid no rent cause she lived in a tent that's why they called her sweet Romany rye
She had just bare feet used the Romany speech she could weave and tell yarns twould do folks no harm
She was swift in the tongue for her the birds sang she was a didikai babe she took her thruths to the grave
She danced at the dawn twas so good to be born where cartwheels did turn on the heaths sacred morn
She was a Romany rye ate rabbit stew pie gave chase to the mush she was so dam kush-ti.
Kiers and Kackers
Keep well away from the Kier's and Kakers she said with her eyes full of rage and her words full in face don't you play with those scoundrels they lead you to hell with their wanton low ways and the stink of the smell
For years I have pondered what words did it mean why she were dark herself and she played on the green where the fuzz it did spread and the ferns it was deep with the birch trees close by where the warblers did sleep
Where the chimney top soared o'er brickyards n downs close by the valley where the tribe bedded down there neath the willow they spread their good days singing the old songs whilst their zunners did play
I never did know why she gave me the eye to beware of the kakers and their homes neath the sky though their families moved on now I can barely recall the days on the commons where rabbits did fall
Where the song thrush sang daily and the foxes gave chase over the hills where the gypsies did date there were stories of artists who painted them bare with brushes of oil and pastels of care the sun it rose daily and the ponies ran free where the common was wide and stretched to bournes sea.
Traveling memories
There were gypsies on the sand dunes before Blackpool golden mile was born there were Gypsies on the lodge hills near Poole when farms were planting corn
There were gypsies in their caravans and in their tents so mean with lights a burning bright each night all full of kerosene
There were ponies on the hillsides then and donkeys on the sands there were fairground cars to ride and more with big top traveling bands
Those fortune telling ladies on the pier did often stand with their cards of tarot destiny and with silver in their hands
All the belly dancing ladies and the singing baritones with the dancing of the festivals and the wagons rolling home
There was work out in the fields then with the fruit picking every day with the singing of the gypsy gals and guys each working holiday
Each year the traveling circus came to call with big top and the clowns with horses bred and braided well and there was hay upon the downs
The crowds were all a thronging and the lights were shining bright these were tales to tell your children when the gypsies were in sight
There were belly dancing ladies with earrings and bright gowns with their castanets and tambourines jingly and the accordion's gay sounds
There were gatherings on the hillsides then and merriment when the traveler's came to call with their Roma ways and dialect like gents and ladies at a ball.
When the yellows on the broom
When the yellows on the broom and the heather decked the floor when the traveler's on the road and wel sing the gypsy reel when the birch tree shed its branches and the warbler sings his tune I'll be wandering down that highway beneath that old new moon
When the yellows on the broom and the furze is rich with dew where the lizards warm their bodies and the adders bake in June where the fir trees shed their harvests with coney's rich in tar where the wandering gypsies travel playing that old country guitar
When the yellows on the broom and the wheels they turn once more where the vardos bless the hillsides from north to sandy shores where the gypsy boys lay sleeping whilst the rabbits hunt n play across the moors and valleys where the wise ones sit n pray
When the yellows on the broom and the gal she tells her cards like fortune tellers do there be lots of zunners laughing and yokels playing tunes where the benders blessed the heather and the fox did hide away whilst the caravans rolled on towards the light of day
When the yellows on the broom and the bracken's rich in black where the berries are sweet in fruiting and the horses rode bare back where the dogs all run in packs and the accordions still play where the wise man knows the gypsy song and the hares do dance in may.
The Rose and the Briar
The wheels keep a turning along the dust track from longham to wareham to Corfe and outback The Rose cheeked children with nowt on their feet whilst only the sparrow talks through his beak
The winds they blew cold and the wastelands were bare all the promises made and the world had its cares the candle was lit in the wagons at night whilst the brush and the briar's welcomed the light
The country was young then but their tales they were old where the landscapes were blessed with Turners bold strokes the warblers they sang through the heather and briar's whilst the gypsy gal blessed with the young mans desires
The trees they were rich in the boughs of the lord whilst the blossoms they shared were full of accord the lovers they kissed in the full moon at night whilst the old folks told dreams and the young uns were sprite
All through their travels with the rose on their brow their tattoos were gay and their hearts were full with power the families traveled oer new forest walks with primroses blessed in the hopes of the lord
The music was startling and melody soared all through the bracken oer many a moor were the spruce it was tall so rich and so free were the pastures were open no hedgerows to see
Their travels were many and their work it was mean with the sweat of their brow and the rich kerosene the culture was rich and full of delight till the gorga stepped in and put out the light..
In copper stained kettles with strange sounding names with smiles of perfection misguided refrains down streets that are littered with stories to tell with bicycle frames and old wishing wells
The caravans glory is written in sand like the dreams from the heath lands the lonely steel bands the chimes of the clock and the walk to the door the preachers and lovers unite in the hall
The ponies that run there free on the moors the old toothless ladies with pure words so pure the poetry reads there like the new dawning sun with cows in the meadows and rabbits a run
The work in the factory and the times not your own with hours spent in fashion and no wheres to roam there a church bell that chimes there and a scene for to see with lonely sidewalks and a stroll to the sea
The organist plays his music so sweet with chords of pure love and honey to eat there's food on the table and wagons that roll there's an old gypsy saying left out in the cold
So beat the drum lowly and ply the flute fine with cherished emotions and words on the vine there's a gypsy boy playing out on the heath but its only a childhood left a cutting his teeth.
Gypsy love
Once trwer a zunner knew an ole gypsy song he sang me the words n they were true n so strong about a fair maiden who sang for her alms she was loved by a gentleman n fell for his charms
Oh the sun it did best there on heather n down her heart it did melt and the loving was strong the skirts tat she wore showed a pleasure for free under the brambles beside the bourne sea
Oh their love it was sweet and his words they did spin he offered her comfort and she gave love to him the wind it did blow and her flesh it was fair they laid in the grasses cum some n bare
The world it was savage and the men they were free with soldiers of fortune out on a spree their heartbeats were one and their flesh was so free under the brambles on the edge of bourne sea
The birds they did chirp and the words he did spin as she succumbed to pleasure and his love fondling where trees they were rich in leaves to the shroud under the hedge grows where love was so proud
Her dress it was scanty and her flesh it was free then he gave her his love proud the rest is history.
| GYPSY POETRY PAGE FIVE
THE GYPSY STORY TELLER
The gypsy story teller he could tell a yarn chickens in the alleyways and cattle in the barn there were vardos on the hillsides and benders on the downs groups of chavvies running free and the queen she wore a crown
The heaths were wild and full of broom with yellow scented furze there were rabbits in the mead there and foxes for to curse
The pegs were made of wood then and the heather for your luck there accordion's were playing and the horses they did buck
the hills were full of beauty and the downs were rambling runs
there were chapels full of local folk and ladies hair in buns
The yokel talked in durzet tones and told a yarn to all the gypsy story teller lived upon the moors
the gypsy story teller could tell a yarn or two about gypsy kings and queens and local yeomen too
The hurdy gurdy played a tune in towns then far and wide with barefoot chavvies running free and broomstick gypsy brides
The Kings and Castle families with Jeff's and whites in tow old sankey ward built houses and Trent's sold cars and loads
The gypsy story teller told tales of long ago when gypsies roamed this land and toffs their wealth did grow the gypsy story teller told yarns to children small old folks and families alike awaken to the call
The vardos decked in artistry and wooden steps to sit whilst pots and pens were full of grub for little mushes lips.t
Bender Days
When we bent our benders down by the creek where the wind did blow and the wind did speak there were many fine people there scattered around from the walks of life and the talk of towns
The grass was green and the clay was white the fields were free both day and night the trails were wide and the roads were long but we whistled free and we sang our songs
We built our homes like travelers do amongst the ferns and the bracken's hue we saw the deer and the rabbits play where the lights were stars and the dark was haze
The bramble thorns and the virgin land the talk was rich and the fortune hands the stolen words i heard yesterday when the gypsy gal came to play with me the thunder roared and the lightning flashed the lizards squirmed and the days went fast
The life was hard and labour free but we shared our hopes and our miseries down in yonder dip where the sun sets morn the wind did blow but we were warm inside our benders made of frames crafted from the dews and rains
The stew we served was hot and mean the countryside was fit for queens where kings and carters sat and toiled amongst the birch and lilies torn
The roads were hard and our spirits free with time to stare and life was free where folks did share an hour with me amongst the benders beneath the trees.
campfire nights
Sitting around the campfires sharing all those tales the story book has ended the gypsy sites are gone
The daisy chains and blossoms the birds songs in the trees the gypsy ways of talking the songs of histories
sitting in the moonlight beneath a spangled sky listening to the breezes as the wagon wheels roll by
The pots of cauldron smelling the rabbit stew and hops the nights under the canvass the days on the wagon show within the docks
the packs of dogs a running the ponies on the heath the accordion man is playing he shows them pearly teeth
the cards come out and played there the lamps of ornate gold the shawls of wool and cotton the old ways as there told
The crafts that once were passed on the fortune telling queen the funeral processions after the caravan was burnt n seen
The artist paints the scene the gypsy dancing sweethearts the kings and traveling folks the brotherhood of means.
The gypsy poets
The old gypsy poets they lived on their wits they lived off the land and on pony's did sit they rode the roads daily and sang of the day when the rabbits did run and twer hares in the hay
The old fairground great wheel keeps spinning around with the lights and the music the organs sweet sounds the darts they did throw and the cars they did roar when the stars were a shining the nights on the moors
The old songs are best our gran-fer did say that twer good in the brambles where rabbits did play where church bells did ring to welcome the day as the gypsy wrote verse and went on his way.
looking for the gypsies
I went looking for the gypsies down some old winding country lane way out in the outback where few folks goes again
I took some notes to read there a guitar for to play far out in the heather land many miles away the rain it was a falling the wind it blew a gale there were shadows on the rocks and hills goldfish in a jar
I heard the wind a playing same sad old gypsy song way back in my memory from the days that long since gone
I strolled o'er all the footpaths where the gypsy folks had been stumbled on a few tin cans plus a empty jar of gin
I saw traces of their footprints horses hooves and more dirt cart tracks where love had rolled where young men went to war
I counted all my blessings granted all my hopes squandered all my dreams on nowt but women and rolled dope
The gypsy maiden comforted me with that look within her eyes as she rubbed that fortune tellers glass then looked into my palms
The stories i could tell you would turn the other cheek with laughter and good living they got by week to week i can still see all their wagons as if twer yesterday like a big wheel on the fairground you could hear that Ferris play
The gypsy folk were noble with Romany roving eyes they traveled on the freeway had no stately ties
I can hear the wind a blowing way out on the heaths where the gypsy folks lay sleeping and the warbler chirped in reach
I can feel the mood that moved them as they lay their in their beds underneath the blanket night where the stars shone overhead.
Before the houses
From bourne valley bottoms along the dirt track the caravans rumbled to lodge hills and back through hedges laden with bramble and gorse lovely chestnuts to nibble with our little horse There at coy meadows we drank from the streams little fresh springs and wonders to dream
There were gypsies at Beale's in town today wel tell you your fortune then be on our way the village kids saw us and give us the eye our caravan homes smoked right up to the skies
With rabbits to ferret and hedgehogs to eat songs around the campfire and family to meet the wheels rolled there daily and the stars shone at night there were folks in their glory and clothes to delight
There was food on the table and rugs on the floors the candles were lit and designs on our doors the music we played there with accordion Joe's the songs that we sang were older than dough
There were times which were hard then and folks who did stray but we were far wiser than many today the grass grew so course and the daisies were spread like creation was labeled for the good and the dead
The queen of the gypsies was dark and so rare she had braided long hair and spent days at Poole fair the wagons were rich and the lamps they were gold the children danced naked upon their tip toes
The chaffinches sung at the break of the day as we ambled along with our stories to say now there's just tarmac and tower park ridge where once there was magic with old uncle Sid
They lived on the heath then when the land it was free before lord guest sold it for houses for thee.
Gypsy man
Heres to the gypsy and the olde caravan the ways of the rover and the travelling van heres to the heathers and the sprigs for your hand heres to the ways of the travelling man
Heres to the flower girls on the road heres to the ponies and the carts with its load heres to the willow and the birch on the hill heres to the joys of the fairgrounds and wheels
Heres to the singing of the old songs once more heres to the sands and the tents on the shores heres to tha sands and the fortunes to sell heres to the rovers and the sea foamms ans swells
Heres to the roads that were hard it was true heres to the tracks made from fleets road to poole heres to the gypsies and their caravans the old ways were best and the songs that they sang
Heres to the tin cans and the ferrets in hand the rabbits on heath and the foxes oer lands heres to the swagger and heres to the tans the richness of life of the old gypsy man.
Campfire girl
She was just a campfire girl raised in the backwoods away from sandy shores she counted stars at night and told your fortune free she was a welcome sight under the old oak trees
Her mother was a gypsy true with darts n flights she threw at Poole her father was a gypsy man with love tattoos on arms and hands
They worked the fairgrounds and toiled the land for income rich was to be their plan though sad to say they were always moved on from canford hills to land of song
Their wagons rolled across this land with songs and tales that were so grand the stories told were rich in hope with cushti bok and strength of rope
The land was beautiful and green where chaffinch blessed the trees so lean where gorse and thistle blessed the downs and farmers toiled and land was out of bounds
The rivers flowed and fish did leap with salmon and perch to gain the deep where blossoms decked the trees and boughs where honeysuckles thrived amongst the cows
But the campfire girl she blest the morn where hedgerows thrived amongst rye and corn where gypsies danced around campfires where locals talked of mush and kiers.
When the wheels are turning
When the wheels are turning il be there out on the road il be travelling the highway with my free and fancy load
When the wheels are turning theres not a cloud in sight I'm hitting that ole road don't care day or night
When the wheels are turning you know you'll count on me il do your chores my friend tell your fortune o'er land or sea
When the wheels are turning I'm set to sell my wares il set my store on trade and skill I'm a gypsy traveler dont you know
When the wheels are turning I'm king of this ole road I'm happy with my folki in tow got so far to see and go
When the wheels are turning I'm free and Happy as a king got wisdom in my pocket got a charm and song to sing
When the wheels are turning you know your sure to see the greatest scene on gods earth coming down that road with me.
Ole dusty road
Were all traveler's on that same old dusty road with all our belonging's on our backs and our cross on overload were all searchers for that place to rest our heads were all seekers on the road to way ahead
Were all traveler's on that same ole dusty road whether white or black Jew or Christan or Muslim branch were all dreamers give or take a chance
Were all traveler's so let us not pretend that were better than our brothers for we all have to reach life's end were all wise men seers clowns and silly fools some games we win and some games we lose
Were all traveler's on that same le dusty road were the sun it rises daily and the moon it casts its spell where rainbows form for one and all and birds they sing their tune where life's journeys take us daily from happiness to gloom
Were all traveler's on life's highway were winds of change may call where children sing those same songs spring summer winter fall
Were all traveler's on that same ole dusty road whether gypsy immigrant refugee or permanent abode were all traveler's..
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DORSET POETRY |
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