The wit and the skill Of the Father of ill, Who’s clever indeed, If they would hope With their foes to cope The Romany need. Our horses they take, Our waggons they break, And us they fling Into horrid cells, Where hunger dwells And vermin sting. When the dead swallow The fly shall follow Across the river, O we’ll forget The wrongs we’ve met, But till then O never: Brother, of that be certain.