Pray, little baby, pray the Lord,
Since guiltless still thou art,
That peace and comfort he afford
To this poor troubled heart.
The false Juanito, day and night,
Had best with caution go,
The Gypsy carles of Yeira height
Have sworn to lay him low.
There runs a swine down yonder hill,
As fast as e'er he can,
And as he runs he crieth still,
Come, steal me, Gypsy man.
I wash'd not in the limpid flood
The shirt which binds my frame;
But in Juanito Ralli's blood
I bravely wash'd the same.
I sallied forth upon my grey,
With him my hated foe,
And when we reach'd the narrow way
I dealt a dagger blow.
To blessed Jesus' holy feet
I'd rush to kill and slay
My plighted lass so fair and sweet,
Should she the wanton play.
I for a cup of water cried,
But they refus'd my prayer,
Then straight into the road I hied,
And fell to robbing there.
I ask'd for fire to warm my frame,
But they'd have scorn'd my prayer,
If I, to pay them for the same,
Had stripp'd my body bare.
Then came adown the village street,
With little babes that cry,
Because they have no crust to eat,
A Gypsy company;
And as no charity they meet,
They curse the Lord on high.
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