You'll watch the stones that rise;
And I'll throw you in your father's sword,
When they reach above your eyes.
"And if you tire o' the play, my lad,
You've but to raise a shout:
At the least word o' your father's mouth,
I'll stop and pluck you out."
The gipsy-man builds quick and light,
As if he played a play,
And the child laughs with a frighted laugh,