The Gipsey

Come hither, ye youths, and attend to my call: I'm the poor little Gypsey that sings at Vauxhall, Who has cunning enough, if you cross but her hand, To know whether Fate will obey her command. Then list to my call: Whether sober or tipsey, Attend to the Gypsey, The poor little Gypsey that sings at Vauxhall. Some youths who're in love, and can live on a sigh, May be anxious to guess at their fair-one's reply: If she shews her white teeth, and for ever is gay, Love is sad, and you only are in a sad way. You'll shortly sing small; No longer, se ipse: So mind you the Gypsey, The poor little Gypsey that sings at Vauxhall.

The sweet little miss, just arriv'd at her teens, Who cannot make out what the gentleman means, Begs teacher to suffer her lot may be told her, Whether, husband and coach, as in time she grows older. Then come to my call, So frisky and whip-se; And mind you the Gypsey, The poor little Gypsey that sings at Vauxhall.

Would you all wish to know the fortune of all? Here come to my levee at merry Vauxhall, Where cross Gypsey's hand with a small bit of stuff, No man but shall say, I give blessings enough. Then be blest one and all: Either sober or tipsey, Remember the Gypsey, The poor little Gypsey that sings at Vauxhall.