ENGLISH-GYPSY STORIES
NO. 51.—BOBBY RAG
Yeahs an’ yeahs an’ double yeahs ago, deah wuz a nice young Gypsy gal
playin’ round an ole oak tree. An’ up comed a squire as she wur
a-playin’, an’ he falled in love wid her, an’ asked her ef she’d go to
his hall an’ marry him. An’ she says, ‘No, sir, you wouldn’t have a
pooah Gypsy gal like me.’ But he meaned so, an’ stoled her away an’
married her.
Now when he bring’d her home, his mother warn’t ’greeable to let
hisself down so low as to marry a Gypsy gal. So she says, ‘You’ll hev
to go an’ ’stry her in de Hundert Mile Wood, an’ strip her
star’-mother-naked, an’ bring back her clothes and her heart and pluck
wid you.’
And he took’d his hoss, and she jumped up behint him, and rid behint
him into de wood. You’ll be shuah it wor a wood, an ole-fashioned wood
we know it should be, wid bears an’ eagles an’ sneks an’ wolfs into it.
And when he took’d her in de wood he says, ‘Now, I’ll ha’ to kill you
here, an’ strip you star’-mother-naked and tek back your clothes an’
your heart an’ pluck wid me, and show dem to my mammy.’
But she begged hard for herself, an’ she says, ‘Deah’s an eagle into
dat wood, an’ he’s gat de same heart an’ pluck as a Christ’n; take dat
home an’ show it to your mammy, an’ I’ll gin you my clothes as well.’
So he stript her clothes affer her, an’ he kilt de eagle, an’ took’d
his heart an’ pluck home, an’ showed it to his mammy, an’ said as he’d
kilt her.
And she heared him rode aff, an’ she wents an, an’ she wents an, an’
she wents an, an’ she crep an’ crep an her poor hens and knees, tell
she fun’ a way troo de long wood. You’ah shuah she’d have hard work to
fin’ a way troo it; an’ long an’ by last she got to de hedge anear de
road, so as she’d hear any one go by.
Now, in de marnin’ deah wuz a young genleman comed by an hoss-back, an’
he couldn’t get his hoss by for love nor money; an’ she hed herself in
under de hedge, for she wur afrightened ’twor de same man come back to
kill her agin, an’ besides you’ah shuah she wor ashamed of bein’ naked.
An’ he calls out, ‘Ef you’ah a ghost, go way; but ef you’ah a livin’
Christ’n, speak to me.’
An’ she med answer direc’ly, ‘I’m as good a Christ’n as you are, but
not in parable.’ [112]
An’ when he sin her, he pull’t his deah beautiful topcoat affer him,
an’ put it an her. An’ he says, ‘Jump behint me.’ An’ she jumped behint
him, an’ he rid wi’ her to his own gret hall. An’ deah wuz no speakin’
tell dey gat home. He knowed she wuz deah to be kilt, an’ he galloped
as hard as he could an his blood-hoss, tell he got to his own hall. An’
when he bring’d her in, dey wur all struck stunt to see a woman naked,
wid her beautiful black hair hangin down her back in long rinklets. Deh
asked her what she wuz deah fur, an’ she tell’d dem, an’ she tell’d
dem. An’ you’ah shuah dey soon put clothes an her; an’ when she wuz
dressed up, deah warn’t a lady in de land more han’some nor her. An’
his folks wor in delight av her.
‘Now,’ dey says, ‘we’ll have a supper for goers an’ comers an’ all
gentry to come at.’
You’ah shuah it should be a ’spensible supper an’ no savation of no
money. And deah wuz to be tales tell’d an’ songs sing’d. An’ every wan
dat didn’t sing’t a song had to tell’t a tale. An’ every door wuz
bolted for fear any wan would mek a skip out. An’ it kem to pass to
dis’ Gypsy gal to sing a song; an’ de gentleman dat fun’ her says,
‘Now, my pretty Gypsy gal, tell a tale.’
An’ de gentleman dat wuz her husband knowed her, an’ didn’t want her to
tell a tale. And he says, ‘Sing a song, my pretty Gypsy gal.’
An’ she says, ‘I won’t sing a song, but I’ll tell a tale. An’ she says—
‘Bobby rag! Bobby rag!
Roun’ de oak tree——’
‘Pooh! pooh!’ says her husband, ‘dat tale won’t do.’ (Now de ole mother
an’ de son, dey knowed what wuz comin’ out.)
‘Go on, my pretty Gypsy gal,’ says de oder young genleman. ‘A werry
nice tale indeed.’
So she goes on—
‘Bobby rag! Bobby rag!
Roun’ de oak tree.
A Gypsy I wuz born’d,
A lady I wuz bred;
Dey made me a coffin
Afore I wuz dead.’
‘An’ dat’s de rogue deah.’
An’ she tell’t all de tale into de party, how he wur agoin’ to kill her
an’ tek her heart an’ pluck home. An’ all de gentry took’t an’ gibbeted
him alive, both him an’ his mother. An’ dis young squire married her,
an’ med her a lady for life. Ah! ef we could know her name, an’ what
breed she wur, what a beautiful ting dat would be. But de tale doan’
say.
I can offer no exact parallel for this story, though it presents
such commonplaces of folklore as the marriage of a poor girl by a
rich man, his mother’s jealousy, her order to take the bride into a
forest and kill her, and bring back her heart or something as a
token, [113] the substitution of some other creature’s heart, and
the ultimate retribution. The husband, however, is nearly always
guiltless. The close of our story is reminiscent of ‘Laula’ or ‘Mr.
Fox’ (pp. 174–5).
NO. 52.—DE LITTLE FOX
In ole formel times, when deh used to be kings an’ queens, deah wuz a
king an’ queen hed on’y one darter. And dey stored dis darter like de
eyes in deir head, an’ dey hardly would let de wind blow an her. Dey
lived in a ’menjus big park, an’ one way of de park wuz a lodge-house,
an’ de oder en’ deah wuz a great moat of water. Now dis queen died an’
lef’ dis darter. An’ she wur a werry han’some gal—you ’ah sure she mus’
be, bein’ a queen’s darter.
In dis heah lodge-house deah wuz an ole woman lived. And in dem days
deah wur witchcraft. An’ de ole king used to sont fur her to go up to
de palast to work, an’ she consated herself an’ him a bit. So one day
dis heah ole genleman wuz a-talking to dis ole woman, an’ de darter gat
a bit jealous, an’ dis ole woman fun’ out dat de darter wuz angry, an’
she didn’t come anigh de house fur a long time.
Now de ole witch wuz larnin’ de young lady to sew. So she sont fur her
to come down to de lodge-house afore she hed her breakfast. An’ de fust
day she wents, she picked up a kernel of wheat as she wuz coming along,
an’ eat it.
An’ de witch said to her, ‘Have you hed your breakfast?’
An’ she says, ‘No.’
‘Have you hed nothin’?’ she says.
‘No,’ she says, ‘on’y a kernel of wheat.’
She wents two marnin’s like dat, an’ picked up a kernel of wheat every
marnin’, so dat de witch would have no powah over her—God’s grain, you
know, sir. But de third marnin’ she on’y picked up a bit av arange
peel, an’ den dis ole wise woman witchered her, an’ after dat she never
sont fur her to come no more. Now dis young lady got to be big. An’ de
witch wuz glad. So she goned to de king an’ she says, ‘Your darter is
dat way. Now, you know, she’ll hev to be ’stry’d.’
‘What! my beautiful han’some darter to be in de fambaley way! Oh! no,
no, no, et couldn’t be.’
‘But it can be so, an’ et es so,’ said de ole witch.
Well, it wuz so, an’ de ole king fun’ it out and was well-nigh crazy.
An’ when he fun’ it out, for shuah dem days when any young woman had a
misforchant, she used to be burnt. An’ he ordered a man to go an’ get
an iron chair an’ a cartload of faggots; an’ she hed to be put in dis
iron chair, an’ dese faggots set of a light rount her, an’ she burnt to
death. As dey had her in dis chair, and a-goin’ to set it of alight,
deah wur an old gentleman come up—dat was my ole Dubel [114] to be
shuah—an’ he says, ‘My noble leech, [115] don’t burn her, nor don’t
hurt her, nor don’t ’stry her, for dere’s an ole wessel into de bottom
of dat park. Put her in dere, an’ let her go where God d’rect her to.’
So dey did do so, an’ nevah think’d no more about her.
Durin’ time dis young lady wuz confined of a little fox. And d’rectly
as he was bornt he says, ‘My mammy, you mus’ be werry weak an’ low
bein’ confined of me, an’ nothin’ to eat or drink; but I must go
somewheres, an’ get you somethin’.’
‘O my deah little fox, don’t leave me. What ever shall I do without
you? I shall die broken-hearted.’
‘I’m a-goin’ to my gran’father, as I suspose,’ says de little fox.
‘My deah, you mustn’t go, you’ll be worried by de dogs.’
‘Oh! no dogs won’t hurt me, my mammy.’
Away he goned, trittin’ an’ trottin’ tell he got to his gran’fader’s
hall. When he got up to de gret boarden gates, dey wuz closed, an’ deah
wuz two or tree dogs tied down, an’ when he goned in de dogs never
looked at him. One of de women corned outer de hall, an’ who should it
be but dis ole witch!
He says, ‘Call youah dogs in, missis, an’ don’t let ’em bite me. I
wants to see de noble leech belonging to dis hall.’
‘What do you want to see him fur?’
‘I wants to see him for somethin’ to eat an’ drink fur my mammy, she’s
werry poorly.’
‘And who are youah mammy?’
‘Let him come out, he’ll know.’
So de noble leech comed out, an’ he says, ‘What do you want, my little
fox?’
He put his hen’ up to his head (such manners he had!): ‘I wants
somethin’ to eat an’ drink fur my mammy, she’s werry poorly.’
So de noble leech tole de cook to fill a basket wid wine an’ wittles.
So de cook done so, and bring’d it to him.
De noble leech says, ‘My little fox, you can never carry it. I will
sen’ some one to carry it.’
But he says, ‘No, thank you, my noble leech’; an’ he chucked it on his
little back, an’ wents tritting an’ trotting to his mammy.
When he got to his mammy, she says, ‘O my deah little fox, I’ve bin
crazy about you. I thought de dogs had eaten you.’
‘No, my mammy, dey turn’t deir heads de oder way.’
An’ she took’d him an’ kissed him an’ rejoiced over him.
‘Now, my mammy, have somethin’ to eat an’ drink,’ says de little fox,
‘I got dem from my gran’father as I suspose it is.’
So he went tree times. An’ de secon’ time he wents, de ole witch began
smellin’ a rat, an’ she says to the servants, ‘Don’t let dat little fox
come heah no more; he’ll get worried.’
But he says, ‘I wants to see de noble leech,’ says de little fox.
‘You’ah werry plaguesome to de noble leech, my little fox.’
‘Oh! no, I’m not,’ he says.
De las’ time he comes, his moder dressed him in a beautiful robe of
fine needlework. Now de noble leech comes up again to de little fox,
an’ he says, ‘Who is youah mammy, my little fox?’
‘You wouldn’t know p’raps ef I wuz to tell you.’
An’ he says, ‘Who med you dat robe, my little fox?’
‘My mammy, to be shuah! who else should make it?’
An’ de ole king wept an cried bitterly when he seed dis robe he had on,
fur he think’d his deah child wur dead.
‘Could I have a word wi’ you, my noble leech?’ says de little fox.
‘Could you call a party dis afternoon up at your hall?’
He says, ‘What fur, my little fox?’
‘Well, ef you call a party, I’ll tell you whose robe dat is, but you
mus’ let my mammy come as well.’
‘No, no, my little fox; I couldn’t have youah mammy to come.’
Well, de ole king agreed, an’ de little fox tell’d him, ‘Now deah mus’
be tales to be tell’d, an’ songs to be sing’d, an’ dem as don’t sing a
song hez to tell a tale. An’ after we have dinner let’s go an’ walk
about in de garden. But you mus’ ’quaint as many ladies an’ genlemen as
you can to dis party, an’ be shuah to bring de ole lady what live at de
lodge.’
Well, dis dinner was called, an’ dey all had ’nuff to eat; an’ after
dat wur ovah, de noble leech stood up in de middlt an’ called for a
song or tale. Deah wus all songs sing’t and tales tell’t, tell it camed
to dis young lady’s tu’n. An’ she says, ‘I can’t sing a song or tell a
tale, but my little fox can.’
‘Pooydorda!’ says de ole witch, ‘tu’n out de little fox, he stinks.’
But dey all called an de little fox, an’ he stoods up an’ says, ‘Once
ont a time,’ he says, ‘deah wuz an ole-fashn’t king an’ queen lived
togeder; an’ dey only had one darter, an’ dey stored dis darter like de
eyes into deir head, an’ dey ’ardly would let de wint blow an her.’
‘Pooydorda!’ says de old witch, ‘tu’n out de little fox, it stinks.’
But deah wuz all de ladies an’ genlemen clappin’ an’ sayin’, ‘Speak an,
my little fox!’ ‘Well tole, my little fox!’ ‘Werry good tale, indeed!’
So de little fox speak’d an, and tell’t dem all about de ole witch, an’
how she wanted to ’stry de king’s darter, an’ he says, ‘Dis heah ole
lady she fried my mammy a egg an’ a sliced of bacon; an’ ef she wur to
eat it all, she’d be in de fambaley way wid some bad animal; but she
on’y eat half on it, an’ den she wor so wid me. An’ dat’s de ole witch
deah,’ he says, showin’ de party wid his little paw.
An’ den, after dis wuz done, an’ dey all walked togeder in de garden,
de little fox says, ‘Now, my mammy, I’ve done all de good I can for
you, an’ now I’m a-goin’ to leave you.’ An’ he strip’t aff his little
skin, an’ he flewed away in de beautifulest white angel you ever seed
in your life.
An’ de ole witch was burnt in de same chair dat wuz meant fur de young
lady.
In the Bukowina-Gypsy story of ‘The Winged Hero,’ No. 26, the
emperor’s daughter, for being ‘that way,’ is to be burnt with her
lover; and just as the mother of the little fox is sent adrift in
an ‘ole wessel,’ so in the Celtic legend is St. Thenew or Enoch,
having miraculously conceived St. Kentigern, exposed in a coracle
on the Firth of Forth. In her Variants of Cinderella (Folklore
Soc., 1893, pp. 307, 507), Miss Cox gives an interesting parallel
for this husk-myth, whose close recalls ‘Bobby Rag’ (No. 51). From
Matthew Wood Mr. Sampson has heard a variant of ‘De Little Fox,’
but very different in details.
NO. 53.—DE LITTLE BULL-CALF
Centers of yeahs ago, when all de most part of de country wur a
wilderness place, deah wuz a little boy lived in a pooah bit of a
poverty [116] house. An’ dis boy’s father guv him a deah little
bull-calf. De boy used to tink de wurl’ of dis bull-calf, an’ his
father gived him everyting he wanted fur it.
Afterward dat his father died, an’ his mother got married agin; an’ dis
wuz a werry wicious stepfather, an’ he couldn’t abide dis little boy.
An’ at last he said, if de boy bring’d de bull-calf home agin, he wur
a-goin’ to kill it. Dis father should be a willint to dis deah little
boy, shouldn’t he, my Sampson?
He used to gon out tentin’ his bull-calf every day wid barley bread.
An’ arter dat deah wus an ole man comed to him, an’ we have a deal of
thought who Dat wuz, eh? An’ he d’rected de little boy, ‘You an’ youah
bull-calf had better go away an’ seek youah forchants.’
So he wents an, an’ wents an, as fur as I can tell you to-morrow night,
[117] an’ he wents up to a farmhouse an’ begged a crust of bread, an’
when he comed back he broked it in two, and guv half an it to his
little bull-calf.
An’ he wents an to another house, an’ begs a bit of cheese crud, an’
when he comed back, he wants to gin half an it to his bull-calf.
‘No,’ de little bull-calf says, ‘I’m a-goin’ acrost dis field into de
wild wood wilderness country, where dere’ll be tigers, lepers, wolfs,
monkeys, an’ a fiery dragin. An’ I shall kill dem every one excep’ de
fiery dragin, an’ he’ll kill me’. (De Lord could make any animal speak
dose days. You know trees could speak wonst. Our blessed Lord He hid in
de eldon bush, an’ it tell’t an Him, an’ He says, ‘You shall always
stink,’ and so it always do. But de ivy let Him hide into it, and He
says, It should be green both winter an’ summer.) [118]
An’ dis little boy did cry, you’ah shuah; and he says, ‘O my little
bull-calf, I hope he won’t kill you.’
‘Yes, he will,’ de little bull-calf says. ‘An’ you climb up dat tree,
an’ den no one can come anigh you but de monkeys, an’ ef dey come de
cheese crud will sef you. An’ when I’m killt de dragin will go away fur
a bit. An’ you come down dis tree, an’ skin me, an’ get my biggest gut
out, an’ blow it up, an’ my gut will kill everyting as you hit wid it,
an’ when dat fiery dragin come, you hit it wid my gut, an’ den cut its
tongue out.’ (We know deah were fiery dragins dose days, like George
an’ his dragin in de Bible. But deah! it aren’t de same wurl’ now. De
wurl’ is tu’n’d ovah sence, like you tu’n’d it ovah wid a spade.)
In course he done as dis bull-calf tell’t him, an’ he climb’t up de
tree, an’ de monkeys climb’t up de tree to him. An’ he helt de cheese
crud in his hend, an’ he says, ‘I’ll squeeze youah heart like dis flint
stone.’
An’ de monkey cocked his eye, much to say, ‘Ef you can squeeze a flint
stone an’ mek de juice come outer it, you can squeeze me.’ An’ he never
spoked, for a monkey’s cunning, [119] but down he went.
An’ de little bull-calf wuz fighting all dese wild tings on de groun’;
an’ de little boy wuz clappin’ his hands up de tree an’ sayin’, ‘Go an,
my little bull-calf! Well fit, my little bull-calf!’ An’ he mastered
everyting barrin’ de fiery dragin. An’ de fiery dragin killt de little
bull-calf.
An’ he wents an, an’ saw a young lady, a king’s darter, staked down by
de hair of her head. (Dey wuz werry savage dat time of day kings to
deir darters if dey misbehavioured demselfs, an’ she wuz put deah fur
de fiery dragin to ’stry her.)
An’ he sat down wid her several hours, an’ she says, ‘Now, my deah
little boy, my time is come when I’m a-goin’ to be worried, an’ you’ll
better go.’
An’ he says, ‘No,’ he says, ‘I can master it, an’ I won’t go.’
She begged an’ prayed an him as ever she could to get him away, but he
wouldn’t go. An’ he could heah it comin’ far enough, roarin’ an’ doin’.
An’ dis dragin come spitting fire, wid a tongue like a gret speart: an’
you could heah it roarin’ fur milts; an’ dis place wheah de king’s
darter wur staked down wuz his beat wheah he used to come. And when it
comed, de little boy hit dis gut about his face tell he wuz dead, but
de fiery dragin bited his front finger affer him. Den de little boy cut
de fiery dragin’s tongue out, an’ he says to de young lady, ‘I’ve done
all dat I can, I mus’ leave you.’ An’ you’ah shuah she wuz sorry when
he hed to leave her, an’ she tied a dimant ring into his hair, an’ said
good-bye to him.
Now den, bime bye, de ole king comed up to de werry place where his
darter wuz staked by de hair of her head, ‘mentin’ an’ doin’, an’
espectin’ to see not a bit of his darter, but de prents of de place
where she wuz. An’ he wuz disprised, an’ he says to his darter, ‘How
come you seft?’
‘Why, deah wuz a little boy comed heah an’ sef me, daddy.’
Den he untied her, an’ took’d her home to de palast, for you’ah shuah
he wor glad, when his temper comed to him agin. Well, he put it into
all de papers to want to know who seft dis gal, an’ ef de right man
comed he wur to marry her, an’ have his kingdom an’ all his destate.
Well, deah wuz gentlemen comed fun all an’ all parts of England, wid
deir front fingers cut aff, an’ all an’ all kinds of tongues—foreign
tongues, an’ beastes’ tongues, an’ wile animals’ tongues. Dey cut all
sorts of tongues out, an’ dey went about shootin’ tings a-purpose, but
dey never could find a dragin to shoot. Deah wuz genlemen comin’ every
other day wid tongues an’ dimant rings; but when dey showed deir
tongues, it warn’t de right one, an’ dey got turn’t aff.
An’ dis little ragged boy comed up a time or two werry desolated like;
an’ she had an eye on him, an’ she looked at dis boy, tell her father
got werry angry an’ turn’t dis boy out.
‘Daddy,’ she says, ‘I’ve got a knowledge to dat boy.’
You may say deah wuz all kinds of kings’ sons comin’ up showin’ deir
parcels; an’ arter a time or two dis boy comed up agin dressed a bit
better.
An’ de ole king says, ‘I see you’ve got an eye on dis boy. An’ ef it is
to be him, it has to be him.’
All de oder genlemen wuz fit to kill him, an’ dey says, ‘Pooh! pooh!
tu’n dat boy out; it can’t be him.’
But de ole king says, ‘Now, my boy, let’s see what you got.’
Well, he showed the dimant ring, with her name into it, an’ de fiery
dragin’s tongue. Dordi! how dese genlemen were mesmerised when he
showed his ’thority, and de king tole him, ‘You shall have my destate,
an’ marry my darter.’
An’ he got married to dis heah gal, an’ got all de ole king’s destate.
An’ den de stepfather came an’ wanted to own him, but de young king
didn’t know such a man.
A bull-calf helps twins in a Russian story summarised by Ralston,
p. 134; the squeezing of the cheese crud can be matched from the
Slovak-Gypsy story of ‘The Gypsy and the Dragon’ (No. 22, p. 84;
cf. also Hahn, i. 152 and ii. 211). For the slaying of a dragon
with the aid of helpful animals, and so rescuing a princess, and
for the recognition of the rescuer by means of the dragon’s
tongues, cf. Grimm’s No. 60, ‘The Two Brothers’ (i. 244–264 and
418–422). That story must be known to the Gypsies of Hungary, for
we get a rude version of it in the latter half of Dr. Friedrich
Müller’s No. 5, whose first half we have summarised on p. 34. The
hero here comes to a city deprived of its water by twelve dragons,
who are also going to devour the king’s daughter. He undertakes to
rescue her, but falls asleep with his head on her knees. The twelve
white dragons roar beneath the earth, and then emerge one by one
from the fountain, but are torn in pieces by the hero’s twelve wild
animals, whose lives he has spared when hunting. Thereupon the
water becomes plentiful, and the hero marries the princess. Her
former lover, however, poisons him. The twelve animals find his
grave, and dig him up. They go in quest of the healing herb; and
the hare, ‘whose eyes are always open,’ sees a snake with that herb
in its mouth, robs it thereof, and is running away, but at the
snake’s request gives back a bit. They then resuscitate their
master, who sends a challenge to the lover by the lion. The
marriage is just about to come off, but the princess reads, weeps,
and breaks off the match. In comes the hero, and having packed off
the lover, remarries her. ‘If they are not dead, they are still
alive.’ Cf. our No. 30, ‘The Rich and the Poor Brother,’ pp.
112–117, for stopping the water [120]; No. 29, ‘Pretty-face,’ p.
111, for the snake-leaf; and No. 42, ‘The Dragon,’ p. 143. None of
these stories, however, offers more than analogues to ‘De Little
Bull-calf,’ whose humour as to the dragon’s tongue is peculiarly
its own. The tongue as the test of who killed the demon occurs in
‘Kara and Guja’ (A. Campbell’s Santal Folk-tales, 1891, pp. 20–21).