'The Rommany churl
And the Rommany girl
To-morrow shall hie
To poison the sty,
And bewitch on the mead
The farmer's steed.'
'Do you hear that, sir?' said Mrs. Herne; 'the child has tipped you a
stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though
perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what
was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child.'
'He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out,
as I told you.'
'Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes
no answer. God give me patience!'
'And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman,
indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now
a tinker, a worker of blue metal.'
'That's his way, child, to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as
for being drabbed, I don't know what to say about it.'
'Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha,
look at the gentleman's motions.'
'He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows;
what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe; the hog died by the drow of
gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is
no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your
fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much
trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind,
pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate
shall take off their hats to you.'
'Hey, bebee!' cried the girl; 'what is this? what do you mean? you have
blessed the gorgio!'
'Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I
can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook told me; woe's me, he'll get
up yet.'
'Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin.'
'Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin,
only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at
the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone.'
'He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look
there, he's dead.'
'No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?'
'Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look
in there, my dog.'
The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark
and tear up the ground.
'At him, juggal, at him; he wished to poison, to drab you. Halloo!'
The dog barked violently, and seemed about to spring at my face, but
retreated.
'The dog won't fly at him, child; he flashed at the dog with his eye, and
scared him. He'll get up.'
'Nonsense, bebee! you make me angry; how should he get up?'
'The dook tells me so, and, what's more, I had a dream. I thought I was
at York, standing amidst a crowd to see a man hung, and the crowd
shouted, "There he comes!" and I looked, and lo! it was the tinker;
before I could cry with joy I was whisked away, and I found myself in
Ely's big church, which was chock full of people to hear the dean preach,
and all eyes were turned to the big pulpit; and presently I heard them
say, "There he mounts!" and I looked up to the big pulpit, and, lo! the
tinker was in the pulpit, and he raised his arm and began to preach.
Anon, I found myself at York again, just as the drop fell, and I looked
up, and I saw not the tinker, but my own self hanging in the air.'
'You are going mad, bebee; if you want to hasten him, take your stick and
poke him in the eye.'
'That will be of no use, child, the dukkerin tells me so; but I will try
what I can do. Halloo, tinker! you must introduce yourself into a quiet
family, and raise confusion--must you? You must steal its language, and,
what was never done before, write it down Christianly--must you? Take
that--and that'; and she stabbed violently with her stick towards the end
of the tent.
'That's right, bebee, you struck his face; now once more, and let it be
in the eye. Stay, what's that? get up, bebee.'
'What's the matter, child?'
'Some one is coming, come away.'
'Let me make sure of him, child; he'll be up yet.' And thereupon Mrs.
Herne, rising, leaned forward into the tent, and, supporting herself
against the pole, took aim in the direction of the farther end. 'I will
thrust out his eye,' said she; and, lunging with her stick, she would
probably have accomplished her purpose had not at that moment the pole of
the tent given way, whereupon she fell to the ground, the canvas falling
upon her and her intended victim.
'Here's a pretty affair, bebee,' screamed the girl.
'He'll get up, yet,' said Mrs. Herne, from beneath the canvas.
'Get up!--get up yourself; where are you? where is your--Here, there,
bebee, here's the door; there, make haste, they are coming.'
'He'll get up yet,' said Mrs. Herne, recovering her breath; 'the dook
tells me so.'
'Never mind him or the dook; he is drabbed; come away, or we shall be
grabbed--both of us.'
'One more blow, I know where his head lies.'
'You are mad, bebee; leave the fellow--gorgio avella.'
And thereupon the females hurried away.
A vehicle of some kind was evidently drawing nigh; in a little time it
came alongside of the place where lay the fallen tent, and stopped
suddenly. There was a silence for a moment, and then a parley ensued
between two voices, one of which was that of a woman. It was not in
English, but in a deep guttural tongue.
'Peth yw hono sydd yn gorwedd yna ar y ddaear?' said a masculine voice.
'Yn wirionedd--I do not know what it can be,' said the female voice, in
the same tongue.
'Here is a cart, and there are tools; but what is that on the ground?'
'Something moves beneath it; and what was that--a groan?'
'Shall I get down?'
'Of course, Peter, some one may want your help?'
'Then I will get down, though I do not like this place; it is frequented
by Egyptians, and I do not like their yellow faces, nor their clibberty
clabber, as Master Ellis Wyn says. Now I am down. It is a tent,
Winifred, and see, here is a boy beneath it. Merciful father! what a
face.'
A middle-aged man, with a strongly marked and serious countenance,
dressed in sober-coloured habiliments, had lifted up the stifling folds
of the tent, and was bending over me. 'Can you speak, my lad?' said he
in English; 'what is the matter with you? if you could but tell me, I
could perhaps help you--' 'What is that you say? I can't hear you. I
will kneel down'; and he flung himself on the ground, and placed his ear
close to my mouth. 'Now speak if you can. Hey! what! no, sure, God
forbid!' then starting up, he cried to a female who sat in the cart,
anxiously looking on--'Gwenwyn! gwenwyn! yw y gwas wedi ei gwenwynaw.
The oil! Winifred, the oil!'