The three Gypsies

Three Gypsies I found once

lying by a willow,

as my cart with weary torture

crawled over the sandy heath.

One, for himself alone, was holding

his fiddle in his hands,

playing, as the sunset glow surrounded him,

a merry little tune.

The second held a pipe in his mouth

and watched his smoke

with cheer, as if from the world

he required nothing more for his happiness.

And the third slept comfortably:

from the tree hung his cymbalom;

over its strings the wind's breath ran;

in his heart a dream was playing.

On the clothing those three wore

were holes and colorful patches;

but, defiantly free, they made

a mockery of earthly fate.

Trebly they showed me

how, when life grows dark for us,

one can smoke, sleep or play it away,

and thus trebly to scorn it.

At the Gypsies, longer yet

I had to gaze in passing,

at their dark brown faces,

at their black-locked hair.