I
I am the Tzigans' pot;
I have come from a far-away no-man's-land,
Hung heavy in many a swarthy hand,
The homeless mate of a hearthless race,
Who, as they wander from place to place,
Still cling to their Tzigans' pot.
II
I am the Tzigans' pot;
When daylight fades into dusk and damp,
I help the womenfolk cheer the camp
With my brushwood fire, whose friendly glow
Soon brightens the boughs and the faces below
That circle the bubbling pot.
III
I am the Tzigans' pot;
That many a boisterous noon hath known,
When bitter the sleety blasts have blown,
When frosty feet have crept close to mine,
And children's voices, chilled to a whine,
Have blest the warm Tzigans' pot.
IV
I am a Tzigans' pot,
And dreary daybreaks remember too,
When mouths were many and leeks were few;
But never, while I'd a gourdful still,
Was any who hungered refused his fill
By the rover, the Tzigans' pot.
