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The Gypsy
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Mr Fox
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1
I'd like to tell you people I met her at a fair,
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But I met her in a pub down by the far side of the square.
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She was dark and she was handsome and her name was Mary-Lee,
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And I'll tell you of the good times of Mary-Lee and me.
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She said she was a gypsy and I knew she didn't lie -
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You could see the fires of India in her dark and roaming eyes.
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I knew I couldn't hold her, I knew she must be free
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But no power on Earth could quench the love I had for Mary-Lee.
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She said the time of horses had long since passed away
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The family remembers them as carefree happy days.
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Her granddad used to drive in a pony and a trap,
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But now they lived in Bradford where her father dealt in scrap.
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I couldn't really tell you how we passed away our time.
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We mostly spent the evenings drinking Tetley's Ale and wine.
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Although it may seem commonplace the way I'm telling you,
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To me a life with Mary-Lee was like a dream come true.
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I courted this young gypsy girl from autumn into spring
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And I thought that the time had come for me to offer her my ring.
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But I never plucked my courage up before I became to see,
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That Mary-Lee grew restless with the pudding of the trees.
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It was on a Sunday afternoon I called to take her out.
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It was Mary's dad, not Mary, who answered to my shout,
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"If it's her that you're seeking you've a long long way to go,
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She joined a band for Scotland at least twelve hours ago."
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For a while I stood there speechless at what her father said,
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And the promises I'd hoped for were still ringing in my head.
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And I knew that I must travel on the road that she'd gone on -
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Even if it took me to the dark side of the sun.
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So early the next morning I started for Ilkley.
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The city was silent and still as a stone.
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With hope in my heart and fire in my head,
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I set off to find where the gypsies had gone.
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I flagged down a car that dropped me at Bolton
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The valley before me, the town at my back
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Walking alone by the low hills of Wharfedale,
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By the black top of Kilty I saw the dawn crack.
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The first one I met on the road was a farmer.
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He nodded his head as he passed me by.
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I asked him politely if he'd seen the gypsies,
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"They were camped up at Langstrothdale," came his reply.
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By the evening I came to the village of Buckden
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And decided that here I should make my night's stop.
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"Have you seen the gypsies?" I asked my friend Jackie,
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"They've moved on," he said, "They've gone over the top."
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So next morning I took the road into Wensleydale,
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Moorland before me, stretched out like a dream.
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Up by the boulders and over the bridge
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Where the white lady walks into the stream.
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I stopped an old man I'd met once before:
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Kit Calvert, the maker of Wensleydale cheese.
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And when I asked Kit if he'd seen the gypsies,
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The words that he spoke helped to put me at ease.
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He said, "The gypsies left early, I watched as they went
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They had one amongst them, thy dark haired lass.
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She shouted to me from the back of a wagon
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They were making for Keld by the Buttertubs Pass."
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Now the Buttertubs Pass, it's steep and it's high
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And the horses would find it a hard way to go.
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If I set on the road and my boots didn't fail me
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I might catch them up before daylight was through.
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High on the road, and nobody near me,
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Far from the city, and far from all harm.
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Sheep on the hillside, grouse in the heather,
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The blind windows of a far-distant farm.
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As the sun dropped down low I came into Thwaite,
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Leaving behind me the dusk on the fell.
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I started straight away down the road into Keld
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Where Neddy once played his harmonium and bells
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From a field by the road I saw the smoke rising.
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I hitched up my pack and I rounded the bend.
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I first saw the horses, and then saw the wagons,
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And I knew that my journey was nearing its end.
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Mary walked up to me and I looked into her eyes,
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And the sadness in her face is a thing I can't describe.
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We didn't speak a word, there was nothing we could say
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About the closing of a love affair, the closing of a day.
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Mary took my hand in hers, I took her hand in mine,
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Just one more night together before we had our time.
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We couldn't sleep inside the van (there wasn't any room)
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So I spent the night in Mary's arms beneath the haloed moon.
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I woke up in the morning, the light was cold and grey.
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The gypsies and their caravans had gone upon their way.
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In my head a burning pain, in my heart a hole,
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By my side a note was pinned, "Have mercy on my soul."
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The last time I heard a word about my Mary Lee,
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She was married to a tinker and was living in Dundee.
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They say she has a baby now to bounce upon her knee,
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And I wonder in the long nights if she ever thinks of me.
Electro Gypsy : Savlonic : animated musi...
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