“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,
I’ll set me down on yonder hill;
And there I’ll cry my fill,
And every tear shall turn a mill.
Shula gang shaugh gig a magala
To my Uskadina slawn slawn.“Shula gang shaugh gig a magala,
I’ll buy me a petticoat and dye it red,
And round this world I’ll beg my bread;
The lad I love is far away.
Shula gang shaugh gig a magala
To my Uskadina slawn slawn.“Shul shul gang along with me,
Gang along me, I’ll gang along with you,
I’ll buy you a petticoat and dye it in the blue,
Sweet William shall kiss you in the rue.
Shula gang shaugh gig a magala
To my Uskadina slawn slawn.”
“We were supremely happy,” says Mr. Petalengro, “in our wandering existence. We contrasted in our semi-consciousness of mind our absence from a thousand anxious cares which crowd upon the social position of those who take part in an overwrought state of extreme civilisation. How long we should have continued our half-dormant reflections which might have added a few more notes upon the philosophy of life, we knew not, but we were roused by the rumble of a stolk-jaerre along the road.”
“For the dance no music can be better than that of a Gipsy band; there is life and animation in it which carries you away. If you have danced to it yourself, especially in a czardas, [176] then to hear the stirring tones without involuntarily springing up is, I assert, an absolute impossibility.” Poor, deluded mortals, I am afraid they will find—
“Nothing but leaves!
Sad memory weaves
No veil to hide the past;
And as we trace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
Sadly we find at last,
Nothing but leaves!”
The converse of all this artificial and misleading Gipsy life is to be seen in hard fate and fact at our own doors—“Look on this picture and then on that.”
“There is a land, a sunny land,
Whose skies are ever bright;
Where evening shadows never fall:
The Saviour is its light.”“There’s a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling-place there
In the sweet by-and-bye.”
George Borrow, during his labours among the Gipsies of Spain forty years ago, did not find much occasion for rollicking fun, merriment, and boisterous laughter; his path was not one of roses, over mossy banks, among the honeysuckles and daisies, by the side of running rivulets warbling over the smooth pebbles; sitting among the primroses, listening to the enchanting voices of the thousand forest and valley songsters; gazing at the various and beautiful kinds of foliage on the hill-sides as the thrilling strains of music pealed forth from the sweet voice of Esmeralda and her tambourine. No, no, no! George Borrow had to face the hard lot of all those who start on the path of usefulness, honour, and heaven. Hard fare, disappointment, opposition, few friends, life in danger, his path was rough and covered with stones; his flowers were thistles, his songs attended with tears, and sorrow filled his heart. But note his object, and mark his end. In speaking of some of the difficulties in his travels, he says:—“My time lay heavily on my hands, my only source of amusement consisting in the conversation of the woman telling of the wonderful tales of the land of the Moors—prison escapes, thievish feats, and one or two poisoning adventures in which she had been engaged. There was something very wild in her gestures. She goggled frightfully with her eyes.” And then
speaking of the old Gipsy woman whom he went to see:—“Here, thrusting her hand into her pocket, she discharged a handful of some kind of dust or snuff into the fellow’s face. He stamped and roared, but was for some time held fast by the two Gipsy men; he extricated himself, however, and attempted to unsheath a knife which he wore in his girdle; but the two young Gipsies flung themselves upon him like furies.”
Borrow says, after travelling a long distance by night, and setting out again the next morning to travel thirteen leagues:—“Throughout the day a drizzling rain was falling, which turned the dust of the roads into mud and mire. Towards evening we reached a moor—a wild place enough, strewn with enormous stones and rocks. The wind had ceased, but a strong wind rose and howled at our backs. The sun went down, and dark night presently came over us. We proceeded for nearly three hours, until we heard the barking of dogs, and perceived a light or two in the distance. ‘That is Trujillo,’ said Antonio, who had not spoken for a long time. ‘I am glad of it,’ I replied; ‘I am so thoroughly tired, I shall sleep soundly in Trujillo.’ That is as it may be. We soon entered the town, which appeared dark and gloomy enough. I followed close behind the Gipsy, who led the way, I knew not whither, through dismal streets and dark places where cats were squalling. ‘Here is the house,’ said he at last, dismounting before a low, mean hut. He knocked, but no answer. He knocked again, but no answer. ‘There can be no difficulty,’ said I, ‘with respect to what we have to do. If your friends are gone out, it is easy enough to go to a posada.’ ‘You know not what you say,’ replied the Gipsy. ‘I dare not go to the mesuna, nor enter any house in Trujillo save this, and this is shut. Well, there is no remedy; we must move on; and, between ourselves, the sooner we leave the place the better. My own brother was garroted at Trujillo.’ He lighted a cigar by means of a steel and yesca, sprung on his
mule, and proceeded through streets and lanes equally dismal as those through which we had already travelled.” Mr. Borrow goes on to say:—“I confess I did not much like this decision of the Gipsy; I felt very slight inclination to leave the town behind, and to venture into unknown places in the dark of the night, amidst rain and mist—for the wind had now dropped, and the rain again began to fall briskly. I was, moreover, much fatigued, and wished for nothing better than to deposit myself in some comfortable manger, where I might sink to sleep lulled by the pleasant sound of horses and mules despatching their provender. I had, however, put myself under the direction of the Gipsy, and I was too old a traveller to quarrel with my guide under present circumstances. I therefore followed close to his crupper, our only light being the glow emitted from the Gipsy’s cigar. At last he flung it from his mouth into a puddle, and we were then in darkness. We proceeded in this manner for a long time. The Gipsy was silent. I myself was equally so. The rain descended more and more. I sometimes thought I heard doleful noises, something like the hooting of owls. ‘This is a strange night to be wandering abroad in,’ I at length said to Antonio, the Gipsy. (The Gipsy word for Antonio is ‘Devil.’) ‘It is, brother,’ said the Gipsy; ‘but I would sooner be abroad in such a night, and in such places, than in the estaripel of Trujillo.’