Gypsy Rose Lee and husband Jack, both of Romany Race
by Phyllis Blue
Live with infant son Joseph on the meadow green, Their fairy tale caravan any picture would proudly grace.
Spotless caravan all alone on daisy meadow stood,
Pie ball horses graze on the sunny hills.
A bubbling brook runs through bird singing wood.
No stranger ever allowed to enter caravan of long ago.
Red door forever open, to show table with white lace cover
Brass shine like gold as to catch the sun light glow.
The gypsy family work and live in one large tent,
Sharp knives chip tree wood, make pretty stick flowers and pegs,
Family work in contentment until close of sun light sent.
Gypsy Rose Lee, a strong dark handsome woman, great willpower to own
Put all colourfull flowers and pegs into very large basket
With infant son walk to valley where love and friendship and known.
On each visit to friends, large pot of tea soon made
Ah / tea cups to drain, swirl three times, make a wish,
Cross Gypsy's palm with silver, tell of fortunes paid.
Those gypsy green eyes look deep into cup for its story,
Still is the silence, strong stern dark face look up,
Signs in cup spill out tears to happiness, weddings, sorrow bring glory
Stern face speak of dark man "Beware he be not what he seem,
Journey across water where mountains meet the sea,
In walk of life, cross of seven'th path, will find the dream.
Telling of fortunes over, there are frowns and smile
Gypsy rose relax, light up her old smoke'ing pipe
Green eyes stare into danc'ing fire flames, another story to file.
Gypsy Rose Lee love the mountains, the hills, and meadow green
Husband Jack suddenly pass away to live in higher fields
Fairy tale caravan die with him, no more to be seen.
Valley people sing in prayer for their Gypsy friend,
Old stone cottage that stand alone near daisy meadow
Become Gypsy Rose Lee's home, for her sad heart to mend.
All to soon little Joseph's fourteen, and off to work must go.
Pit had and boots all heavy, bag with Tommy box and water jack, slung on back.
Down the dark coal pit go five foot little Joe.
Pit hooter call day shift over, Gage bring up the tired miners,
Faces all smiling and black, all just dying for a fag,
As they walk the mile ash path home, there is joyful singing of Carolina.
Soon to reach village, old men stand outside pubs closed doorway
Little Joe goes up to one wide old man and in earnest voice declare,
"Please sir I do not want to be a Gypsy anymore after today."
The kind snow white hair and smile and to little Joe reply.
"My son this is your true birth right, your fate, your destiny,
From across the eastern sea's came your family with knowledge from high.
The seed took firm root in young Joe's heart to stay
Young shoots became ever green branches
That in prayer give thanks to heaven for this bright new day.
Today six foot, dark and handsome Joe stand outside pub of closed door
Proud of his gypsy birth right he is often heard to say
Proud of my inner sight giving me faith and hope for evermore.