Speak, memory— Of the cunning hero, The wanderer, blown off course time and again After he plundered Troy's sacred heights. Speak Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped, The suffering deep in his heart at sea As he struggled to survive and bring his men home But could not save them, hard as he tried— The fools—destroyed by their own recklessness When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun, And that god's dragons snuffed out their day of return.
There were three old gypsies came to our hall door They came brave and boldly-o The one sang high and the other sang low The other sang a raggle taggle gypsy-o.
It was upstairs downstairs the lady went She put on her suit of leather-o Then there came a cry from the open door “Oh lord - here now stand three dragons-o!” [Trad.]