"There's a race of men that don't fit in, A race that can't stay still; So they break the hearts of kith and kin; And they roam the world at will. The range the field and they rove the flood, And they climb the mountain's crest; Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood, And they don't know how to rest. If they just went straight they might go far; They are strong and brave and true; But they're always tired of the things that are, And they want the strange and new."