“Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog.”
“You have taken drows, sir,” said Mrs. Herne; “do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison.”
And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang—
“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, and 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.”