One summer, when holidaying with my family at the breezy Yorkshire coast-town of Bridlington, I heard that there were Romanies living in a house at a little inland town, and, cycling over the hills, I spent a pleasant hour in the home of a Gypsy, who in a sweet voice sang the following ballad:—
“There were seven Gypsies all in a row,
And they sang blithe and bonny, O!
They sang until at last they came
Unto the yellow castle’s hall, O!The yellow castle’s lady, she came out,
And gave to them some siller, O!
She gave to them a far better thing,
’Twas the gold ring from her finger, O!At ten o’clock o’ night her lord came home,
Enquiring for his lady, O!
The waiting-maid gave this reply,
She’s gone with the roving Gypsies, O!Come saddle me my milk-white steed,
Come saddle for me my pony, O!
That I may go by the green-wood side,
Until I find my lady, O!So all through the dark o’ night he rode,
Until the next day’s dawning, O!
He rode along the green-wood side,
And there he found his lady, O!Last night you laid on a good feather bed,
Beside your own married lord, O!
To-night in the cold open fields you lie,
Along with the roving Gypsies, O!What made you leave your home and your lands?
What made you leave your money, O!
What made you leave your own married lord,
To go with the roving Gypsies, O!What cares I for my home and my lands,
What cares I for my money, O!
What cares I for my own married lord,
I’ll go with the roving Gypsies, O!”
On leaving, I placed a silver coin in the singer’s tawny palm, whereupon she sprang from her stool by the fire and gave me a resounding kiss on the cheek.
CHAPTER XIII
WITH THE YORKSHIRE GYPSIES
As I have said, Gypsies settled in houses now greatly outnumber their roving brethren. Hence it has come to pass that nearly every town in the land possesses a Bohemian quarter where you are met by dark faces and sidelong glances speaking of Gypsy blood. Nor can the student of Gypsy life and manners afford to neglect these haunts despite their dinginess, for as often as not they contain aged Gypsies whose memories are well worth ransacking for lore and legend, and in “working” these queer alleys, one has often picked up choice reminiscences of bygone Gypsy life.
One morning I was walking under the grey walls of Scarborough Castle, and, coming out upon the sparkling North Bay, I ran into the arms of a mush-fakir (umbrella-mender), who looked as if there rolled in his veins a blend of Scottish and Irish blood, but I was mistaken, for he told me he was Welsh and bore the name of Evans. Far-travelled, his peregrinations had ranged from Aberdeen to Penzance, and seldom have I met a man of his class so overflowing with varied knowledge. He asked me if I knew William Street in Scarborough, but as a newcomer I admitted that I had not so much as heard of the locality, and made request for further information.
“I reckon William Street ’ll just suit you,” he declared. “It’s full o’ tinkers and grinders, Gypsies and sweeps, and the like.”
“A regular Whitechapel,” I suggested.
“Now you’ve hit it,” said he laughingly.