Now thou art my darling girl,
And I love thee dearly;
Oh, beloved and my fair,
Lov'st thou me sincerely?
As my good old trusty horse
Draws his load or bears it;
As a gallant cavalier
Cocks his hat and wears it;
As a sheep devours the grass
When the day is sunny;
As a thief who has the chance
Takes away our money;
As strong ale when taken down
Makes the strongest tipsy;
As a fire within a tent
Warms a shivering gypsy;
As a gypsy grandmother
Tells a fortune neatly;
As the Gentile trusts in her,
And is done completely,--
So you draw me here and there,
Where you like you take me;
Or you sport me like a hat,--
What you will you make me.
So you steal and gnaw my heart
For to that I'm fated!
And by you, my gypsy Kate,
I'm intoxicated.
And I own you are a witch,
I am beaten hollow;
Where thou goest in this world
I am bound to follow,--
Follow thee, where'er it be,
Over land and water,
Trinali, my gypsy queen!
Witch and witch's daughter!
"Well, that _is_ deep Romanes," said the woman, admiringly. "It's
beautiful."
"_I_ should think it was," remarked the violinist. "Why, I didn't
understand more than one half of it. But what I caught I understood."
Which, I reflected, as he uttered it, is perhaps exactly the case with
far more than half the readers of all poetry. They run on in a
semi-sensuous mental condition, soothed by cadence and lulled by rhyme,
reading as they run for want of thought. Are there not poets of the
present day who mean that you shall read them thus, and who cast their
gold ornaments hollow, as jewelers do, lest they should be too heavy?
"My children," said Meister Karl, "I could go on all day with Romany
songs; and I can count up to a hundred in the black language. I know
three words for a mouse, three for a monkey, and three for the shadow
which falleth at noonday. And I know how to _pen dukkerin_, _lel
dudikabin te chiv o manzin apre latti_." {270}
"Well, the man who knows _that_ is up to _drab_ [medicine], and hasn't
much more to learn," said the young man. "When a _rye's_ a Rom he's
anywhere at home."
"So _kushto bak_!" (Good luck!) I said, rising to go. "We will come
again!"
"Yes, we will come again," said Meister Karl. "Look for me with the
roses at the races, and tell me the horse to bet on. You'll find my
_patteran_ [a mark or sign to show which way a gypsy has traveled] at the
next church-door, or may be on the public-house step. Child of the old
Egyptians, mother of all the witches, sister of the stars, daughter of
darkness, farewell!"
This bewildering speech was received with admiring awe, and we departed.
I should have liked to hear the comments on us which passed that evening
among the gypsy denizens of Mammy Sauerkraut's Row.