The People of the Dew

If you can rokker Romany 
And wish the gipsy well, 
Come tramp the fern beside me 
Up hill and over fell. 
I'll show you where the deadwort grows,
Where witchbells cluster blue, 
And where the foxgloves ring at night
For People of the Dew. 

They're wayward folk and wandering 
And wastrel folk as we — 
They take their gear where'er it comes,
They love no walls to see. 
They milk the kye and scare the birds,
A gay and idle crew — 
And spae the stars like Romanies,
The People of the Dew. 

Like us, they come from far away,
Like us, must wander far; 
Their kin is Jack o'Lanthorn 
And every falling star. 
They're of the water and the wind,
And of the fixed earth, you:
But nought can stay and nought affray 
The People of the Dew. 

Whoever hears them singing 
Will love no other song. 
Whoever sees them dancing,
Must rise and tramp along, 
And take the highway for his path
Winter and summer through,
And follow, follow till he finds 
The 'People of the Dew. 

They're hiding in the elder-tree,
And in the bracken brown,
And one will go in tattered rags,
One in a silken gown. 
But you may know them by their eyes, 
That sorrow never knew,
They've looked on life and looked past death,
The People of the Dew.