The gray thief's outcast brood,
Trapped in the haunts of men--
And far away the sheltered wood,
And far the desert's fen.

Far is the moonlit plain
Where they would wande'ring be;
They like not through the window pane
The faces that they see.

No use to stretch a hand
Of kind and friendly care;
They would not know or understand
The peace ye would declare.

The wild blood will not tame
With one day's passing grace;
For, know ye not from whence they came,
That gaunt, marauding race?

For full a thousand years
They've borne the bane and ban,
The bold, unshriven buccaneers,
The gypsy's outlawed clan.

And so, when night starts pale
And wakes the desert's breeze,
If ye shall hear a she-wolf's wail,
It is for loss of these.