This I thought worthy of the five cents. Then my uncle began to put questions in Romany.

“Where is Anselo W.? He that was staruben for a gry?” (imprisoned for a horse).

“Staruben apopli.” (Imprisoned again.)

“I am sorry for it, sister Nell. He used to play the fiddle well. I wot he was a canty chiel’, and dearly lo’ed the whusky, oh!”

“Yes, he was too fond of that. How well he could play!”

“Yes,” said my uncle, “he could. And I have sung to his fiddling when the tatto-pāni [hot water, i.e., spirits] boiled within us, and made us gay, oh, my golden sister! That’s the way we Hungarian gypsy gentlemen always call the ladies of our people. I sang in Romany.”

“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 kamāva tute,
Kamlidiri, rinkeni,
Kāmes mande buti?

Sa o miro kūshto gry
Taders miri wardi,—
Sa o boro būno rye
Rikkers lesto stardi.

Sa o bokro dré o char
Hawala adovo,—
Sa i choramengeri
Lels o ryas luvoo,—

Sa o sasto levinor
Kairs amandy mātto,—
Sa o yag adré o tan
Kairs o geero tātto,—

Sa i pūri Romni chai
Pens o kushto dukkrin,—
Sa i Gorgi dinneli,
Patsers lākis pukkrin,—

Tute taders tiro rom,
Sims o gry, o wardi,
Tute chores o zī adrom
Rikkers sā i stardi.

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

Paller tute sarasa
Pardel pūv te pāni,
Trinali—o krallisa!
Miri chovihāni!

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!