THE GYPSY
Words and music by Bob Pegg
(c) 1971 Transatlantic Records Ltd. (c) 1996 Castle Communications Plc

I'd like to tell you people I met her at a fair,
But I met her in a pub down by the far side of the square.
She was dark and she was handsome and her name was Mary Lee
And I'll tell you of the good times of Mary Lee and me.

She said she was a Gypsy and I knew she didn't lie.
You could see the fires of India in her dark and roving eye.
I knew I couldn't hold her; I knew she must be free,
But no power on earth could quench the love I had for Mary Lee.

She said the time of horses had long since passed away,
But the family remembered them as carefree happy days.
Her granddad used to drive in a pony and a trap,
But now they lived in Bradford where her father dealt in scrap.

I can't really tell you how we passed away our time.
We mostly spent the evenings drinking Tetley's ale and wine,
And though it may seem commonplace the way I'm telling you,
To me the life with Mary Lee was like a dream come true.

I courted this young Gypsy girl through autumn into spring
And I thought the time had come for me to offer her my ring,
But I never plucked my courage up or I began to see
That Mary Lee grew restless with the budding of the trees.

It was on a Sunday afternoon I called to take her out.
It was Mary's dad, not Mary, who answered to my shout.
"If it's her that you're seeking you've a long long way to go.
She joined the vans for Scotland at least twelve hours ago."

But while I stood there speechless at what her father said
And the promises I hoped for were still ringing in my head,
Then I knew that I must travel the road she'd gone on
Even if it took me to the dark side of the sun.

So early next morning I started for Ilkley.
The city was silent and still as a stone.
With hope in my heart and fire in my head,
I set off to find where the Gypsies had gone.

I flagged down a car that dropped me at Bolton,
The valley before me, the town at my back.
Walking alone by the low hills of Wharfedale
By the black top of Kilnsey I saw the dawn crack.

The first one I met on the road was a farmer.
He nodded his head as he passed me by.
I asked him politely if he'd seen the Gypsies.
"They were camped up at Langstrothdale," came his reply.

By evening I came to village of Buckden.
Decided that here I should make my night's stop.
"Have you seen the Gypsies?" I asked my friend Jackie.
"They've moved on", he said. "They've gone over the top."

So next morning I took the road into Wensleydale.
Moorland before me stretched out like a dream,
Up by the boulders and over the bridge
Where the White Lady walks into the stream.

I stopped an old man I'd met once before,
Kit Calvert the maker of Wensleydale cheese.
And when I asked Kit if he'd seen the Gypsies
The words that he spoke helped to put me at ease.

He said, "The Gypsies left early; I watched as they went.
They had one among them, a fine dark-haired lass.
She shouted to me from the back of a wagon.
They were making for Keld by the Buttertubs pass."

Now the Buttertubs pass, it's steep and it's high,
And the horses would find it a hard way to go.
If I kept on the road and my boots didn't fail me,
I might catch them up before daylight was through.

High on the road and nobody near me.
Far from the city and far from all harm.
Sheep on the hillside, grouse in the heather.
The blind windows of a far distant farm.

[LONG INSTRUMENTAL BREAK]

As the sun dropped down low I came into Thwaite,
Leaving behind me the dusk on the fells,
Started straight way down the road into Keld
Where Neddy once played his harmonium and bells.

From a field by the road I saw the smoke rising.
I hitched up my pack as I rounded the bend.
I first saw the horses and then saw the wagons
And I knew that my journey was nearing its end.

Mary walked up to me and I looked into her eyes
And the sadness in her face is a thing I can't describe.
We didn't speak a word; there was nothing left to say
About the closing of a love affair, the closing of a day.

Mary took my hand in hers; I took her hand in mine.
Just one more night together before we had our time.
We couldn't sleep inside the van; there wasn't any room,
So I spent the night in Mary's arms beneath the haloed moon.

I woke up in morning; the light was cold and grey.
The Gypsies and their caravans had gone upon their way.
In my head a burning pain, in my heart a hole.
By my side a note was pinned: "Have mercy on my soul."

The last time I heard a word about my Mary Lee,
She was married to a tinker and was living in Dundee.
They say she has a baby now to bounce upon her knee
And I wonder in the long nights if she ever thinks of me.