A welcome to the Gipsy,
Thro? many lands she?s wander?d
O?er fate and fortune ponder?d
The future she can tell.
Hold forth your hand, hold forth your pretty hand,
Oh lady fair,
There?s naught that can from us behid,
The future comes unbidden
And from us there?s nothing hid
And yields before our spell.
Ah, my lady, arival would abuse you.
Good Sir, none can accuse you of constancy in love.
Away, where joy invites us,
And bid a truce to sorrow;
Ye think not of tomorrow,
While pleasure gives content.