When summer's heat vanished away,The ice-cold wind moved in to stay.The Gypsy, dressed in threadbare cloth,Had built no shelter, out of sloth.He did perceive that sloth was wrong,Yet his own sloth was much too strong.The winter raged on, cold and hard.So, to the Captain of the guardThe Gypsy went, at break of day,Bringing a gift along the way.He didn't have too long to wait –The Captain met him at the gate."What ails you, boy?" he did enquire."Pray, do me a big favour, Squire.One of your soldiers 's'all I ask,To help me, Master, with my task,To keep me working for a spell,Until I've built a place to dwell. Now, with the soldier standing guard,The Gypsy worked ever so hard,Because the soldier boy would crackA whip over the Gypsy's back.And soon enough, lo and behold,The Gypsy's kin escaped the cold.The Gypsy said: "God bless you, friend!Though, truth to tell, my hide you've tanned,To make me do the work… But still,Now, thanks to you, I'll spurn the chill. Word without end
by Anton Pann (1794-1854)
