Part 31

"I'd like to hear you sing now," remarked a dark, handsome young man, who had just made a mysterious appearance out of the surrounding shadows.

"It's a kamaben gilli" (a love-song), said the rye; "and it is beautiful, deep old Romanes,--enough to make you cry."

There was the long sound of a violin, clear as the note of a horn. I had not observed that the dark young man had found one to his hand, and, as he accompanied, my uncle sang; and I give the lyric as he afterwards gave it to me, both in Romany and English. As he frankly admitted, it was his own composition.

KE TEINALI.

Tu shan miri pireni Me kamava tute, Kamlidiri, rinkeni, Kames mande buti?

Sa o miro kushto gry Taders miri wardi,-- Sa o boro buno rye Rikkers lesto stardi.

Sa o bokro dre o char Hawala adovo,-- Sa i choramengeri Lels o ryas luvoo,--

Sa o sasto levinor Kairs amandy matto,-- Sa o yag adre o tan Kairs o geero tatto,--

Sa i puri Romni chai Pens o kushto dukkrin,-- Sa i Gorgi dinneli, Patsers lakis pukkrin,--

Tute taders tiro rom, Sims o gry, o wardi, Tute chores o zi adrom Rikkers sa i stardi.

Tute haws te chores m'ri all, Tutes dukkered buti Tu shan miro jivaben Me t'vel paller tute.

Paller tute sarasa Pardel puv te pani, Trinali--o krallisa! Miri chovihani!

TO TRINALI.

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!"