Rose she was a gipsy,

And she lived within the moors,

Her bed was on the ground she stood,

Rose lived and slept outdoors.

She lived on apples and blackberries,

Her currants were pods of broom,

The wine she drank was the dew of the dog rose,

Her books were church side tombs.

Her family were the surrounding hills,

Her friends laschen trees,

Along with natures family ties,

She did as she always pleased.

Most times no breafast in the morn,

No dinner to eat at noon,

And instead of supper some dark nights,

She would stare up at the moon.

But each sunrise with woodbine fresh,

She made a garlanding,

And every night in the dark moor glow,

She wove, and she would sing.

Her fingers were old and brown,

And she plaited mats of rushes,

And gave them to the people she saw,

Strolling amoung the bushes.

Rose was brave as any saw,

Tall but had her head bowed down,

An old red blanket cloak she wore,

A chip hat she had on,

Gods has rested her old bones somewhere,

She died by herself alone. 

An old gipsy lived off the land,

Forsaking any sort of home.