The baulo he will lel lis.
Coliko, coliko saulo we
Apopli to the farming ker
Will wel and mang him mullo,
Will wel and mang his truppo.
And so we kairs, and so we kairs;
The baulo in the rarde mers;
We mang him on the saulo,
And rig to the tan the baulo.
And then we toves the wendror well
Till sore the wendror iuziou se,
Till kekkeno drab’s adrey lis,
Till drab there’s kek adrey lis.
And then his truppo well we hatch,
Kin levinor at the kitchema,
And have a kosko habben,
A kosko Romano habben.
The boshom engro kils, he kils,
The tawnie juva gils, she gils
A puro Romano gillie,
Now shoon the Romano gillie.
Which song I had translated in the following manner, in my younger days, for a lady’s album.
Listen to me ye Roman lads, who are seated in the straw about the fire, and I will tell how we poison the porker, I will tell how we poison the porker.
We go to the house of the poison monger, [42] where we buy three pennies’ worth of bane, and when we return to our people we say, we will poison the porker; we will try and poison the porker.
We then make up the poison, and then we take our way to the house of the farmer, as if to beg a bit of victuals, a little broken victuals.
We see a jolly porker, and then we say in Roman language, “Fling the bane yonder amongst the dirt, and the porker soon will find it, the porker soon will find it.”
Early on the morrow, we will return to the farm-house, and beg the dead porker, the body of the dead porker.
And so we do, even so we do; the porker dieth during the night; on the morrow we beg the porker, and carry to the tent the porker.
And then we wash the inside well, till all the inside is perfectly clean, till there’s no bane within it, not a poison grain within it.
And then we roast the body well, send for ale to the alehouse, and have a merry banquet, a merry Roman banquet.
The fellow with the fiddle plays, he plays; the little lassie sings, she sings an ancient Roman ditty; now hear the Roman ditty.
SONG OF THE BROKEN CHASTITY.
By Ursula.
Penn’d the Romany chi ké laki dye
“Miry dearie dye mi shom cambri!”
“And savo kair’d tute cambri,
Miry dearie chi, miry Romany chi?”
“O miry dye a boro rye,
A bovalo rye, a gorgiko rye,
Sos kistur pré a pellengo grye,
’Twas yov sos kerdo man cambri.”
“Tu tawnie vassavie lubbeny,
Tu chal from miry tan abri;
Had a Romany chal kair’d tute cambri,
Then I had penn’d ke tute chie,
But tu shan a vassavie lubbeny
With gorgikie rat to be cambri.”
“There’s some kernel in those songs, brother,” said Mr. Petulengro, when the songs and music were over.
“Yes,” said I, “they are certainly very remarkable songs. I say, Jasper, I hope you have not been drabbing baulor lately.”
“And suppose we have, brother, what then?”
“Why, it is a very dangerous practice, to say nothing of the wickedness of it.”
“Necessity has no law, brother.”
“That is true,” said I, “I have always said so, but you are not necessitous, and should not drab baulor.”
“And who told you we had been drabbing baulor?”
“Why, you have had a banquet of pork, and after the banquet Mrs. Chikno sang a song about drabbing baulor, so I naturally thought you might have lately been engaged in such a thing.”
“Brother, you occasionally utter a word or two of common sense. It was natural for you to suppose, after seeing that dinner of pork, and hearing that song, that we had been drabbing baulor; I will now tell you that we have not been doing so. What have you to say to that?”
“That I am very glad of it.”
“Had you tasted that pork, brother, you would have found that it was sweet and tasty, which balluva that is drabbed can hardly be expected to be. We have no reason to drab baulor at present, we have money and credit; but necessity has no law. Our forefathers occasionally drabbed baulor, some of our people may still do such a thing, but only from compulsion.”
“I see,” said I; “and at your merry meetings you sing songs upon the compulsatory deeds of your people, alias their villainous actions; and, after all, what would the stirring poetry of any nation be, but for its compulsatory deeds? Look at the poetry of Scotland, the heroic part, founded almost entirely on the villainous deeds of the Scotch nation; cow-stealing, for example, which is very little better than drabbing baulor; whilst the softer part is mostly about the slips of its females among the broom, so that no upholder of Scotch poetry could censure Ursula’s song as indelicate, even if he understood it. What do you think, Jasper?”
“I think, brother, as I before said, that occasionally you utter a word of common sense; you were talking of the Scotch, brother; what do you think of a Scotchman finding fault with Romany?”
“A Scotchman finding fault with Romany, Jasper! Oh dear, but you joke, the thing could never be.”
“Yes, and at Piramus’s fiddle; what do you think of a Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle?”
“A Scotchman turning up his nose at Piramus’s fiddle! nonsense, Jasper.”
“Do you know what I most dislike, brother?”
“I do not, unless it be the constable, Jasper.”
“It is not the constable, it’s a beggar on horseback, brother.”
“What do you mean by a beggar on horseback?”
“Why, a scamp, brother, raised above his proper place, who takes every opportunity of giving himself fine airs. About a week ago, my people and myself camped on a green by a plantation in the neighbourhood of a great house. In the evening we were making merry, the girls were dancing, while Piramus was playing on the fiddle a tune of his own composing, to which he has given his own name, Piramus of Rome, and which is much celebrated amongst our people, and from which I have been told that one of the grand gorgio composers, who once heard it, has taken several hints. So, as we were making merry, a great many grand people, lords and ladies, I believe, came from the great house and looked on, as the girls danced to the tune of Piramus of Rome, and seemed much pleased; and when the girls had left off dancing, and Piramus playing, the ladies wanted to have their fortunes told; so I bade Mikailia Chikno, who can tell a fortune when she pleases better than any one else, tell them a fortune, and she, being in a good mind, told them a fortune which pleased them very much. So, after they had heard their