“Look at the Gorgios, the Gorgios around me! trying to take my life away.
“I will wade up to my knees in blood, all for my happy boy.
“My husband is taken to prison, to prison, to prison; my husband is taken to prison, to the place of which I know.”
Difficulty of obtaining Information.—The Khedivé on the Gipsies.—Mr Edward Elias.—Mahomet introduces me to the Gipsies.—They call themselves Tatâren.—The Rhagarin or Gipsies at Boulac.—Cophts.—Herr Seetzen on Egyptian Gipsies.—The Gipsy with the Monkey in Cairo.—Street-cries of the Gipsy Women in Egypt. Captain Newbold on the Egyptian Gipsies.
Since writing the foregoing pages, and only a day or two after one of the incidents therein described, I went to Egypt, passing the winter in Cairo and on the Nile. While waiting in the city for the friend with whom I was to ascend the mysterious river, it naturally occurred to me, that as I was in the country which many people still believe is the original land of the Gipsies, it would be well worth my while to try to meet with some, if any were to be found.
It is remarkable, that notwithstanding my inquiries from many gentlemen, both native and foreign, including savans and beys, the only educated person I ever met in Egypt who was able to give me any information on the subject of its Gipsies was the Khedivé or Viceroy himself, a fact which will not seem strange to those who are aware of the really wonderful extent of his knowledge of the country which he rules. I had been but a few days in Cairo when, at an interview with the Khedivé, Mr Beardsley, the American Consul, by whom I was presented, mentioned to his Highness that I was interested in the subject of the Gipsies, upon which the Khedivé said that there were in Egypt many people known as “Rhagarin” (Ghagarin), who were probably the same as the “Bohémiens” or Gipsies of Europe. His words were, as nearly as I can remember, as follows:—
“They are wanderers who live in tents, and are regarded with contempt even by the peasantry. Their women tell fortunes, tattoo, {189} and sell small-wares; the men work in iron (quincaillerie). They are all adroit thieves, and noted as such. The men may sometimes be seen going around the country with monkeys; in fact, they appear to be in all respects the same people as the Gipsies of Europe.”
This was all that I could learn for several days; for though there were Gipsies—or “Egypcians”—in Egypt, I had almost as much trouble to find them as Eilert Sundt had to discover their brethren in Norway. In speaking of the subject to Mr Edward Elias, a gentleman well known in Egypt, he most kindly undertook to secure the aid of the chief of police, who in turn had recourse to the Shekh of the Gipsies. But the Shekh I was told was not himself a Gipsy, and there were none of his subjects in Cairo. After a few days, three wanderers, supposed to be Rommany, were arrested; but on examination they proved to be ignorant of any language except Arabic. Their occupation was music and dancing “with a stick;” in fact, they were performers in those curious and extremely ancient Fescennine farces, or Atellanæ, which are depicted on ancient vases, and are still acted on the roads in Egypt as they were in Greece before the days of Thespis. Then I was informed that Gipsies were often encamped near the Pyramids, but research in this direction was equally fruitless.
Remembering what his Highness had told me, that Gipsies went about exhibiting monkeys, I one day, on meeting a man bearing an ape, endeavoured to enter into conversation with him. Those who know Cairo can imagine with what result! In an instant we were surrounded by fifty natives of the lower class, jabbering, jeering, screaming, and begging—all intent, as it verily seemed, on defeating my object. I gave the monkey-bearer money; instead of thanking me, he simply clamoured for more, while the mob became intolerable, so that I was glad to make my escape.
At last I was successful. I had frequently employed as donkey-driver an intelligent and well-behaved man named Mahomet, who spoke English well, and who was familiar with the byways of Cairo. On asking him if he could show me any Rhagarin, he replied that every Saturday there was a fair or market held at Boulac, where I would be sure to meet with women of the tribe. The men, I was told, seldom ventured into the city, because they were subject to much insult and ill-treatment from the common people. On the day appointed I rode to the market, which was extremely interesting. There were thousands of blue-shirted and red-tarbouched or white-turbaned Egyptians, buying or selling, or else merely amusing themselves; dealers in sugar-cane, pipe-pedlars, and vendors of rosaries; jugglers and minstrels. At last we came to a middle-aged woman seated on the ground behind a basket containing beads, glass armlets, and similar trinkets. She was dressed like any Arab woman of the lower class, but was not veiled, and on her chin blue lines were tattooed. Her features and whole expression were, however, evidently Gipsy.
I spoke to her in Rommany, using such words as would have been intelligible to any of the race in England, Germany, or Turkey; but she did not understand me, and declared that she could speak nothing but Arabic. At my request Mahomet explained to her that I had travelled from a distant country in “Orobba,” where there were many Rhagarin who declared that their fathers came from Egypt, and that I wished to know if any in the latter country could speak the old language. She replied that the Rhagarin of “Montesinos” could still speak it, but that her people in Egypt had lost the tongue. Mahomet declared that Montesinos meant Mount Sinai or Syria. I then asked her if the Rhagarin had no peculiar name for themselves, and she replied, “Yes, we call ourselves Tatâren.”
This was at least satisfactory. All over Southern Germany and in Norway the Rommany are sailed Tatâren; and though the word means Tartars, and is simply a misapplied term, it indicates a common race. The woman seemed to be very much gratified at the interest I manifested in her people. I gave her a double piastre, and asked for its value in blue-glass armlets. She gave me two pair, and as I turned to depart called me back, and with a good-natured smile handed me four more as a present. This generosity was very Gipsy-like, and very unlike the usual behaviour of any common Egyptian.
While on the Nile, I inquired of people in different towns if they had ever seen Gipsies where they lived, and was invariably answered in the negative. Remembering to have read in some book a statement that the Ghawâzi or dancing-girls formed a tribe by themselves, and spoke a peculiar language, I asked an American who has lived for many years in Egypt if he thought they could be Gipsies. He replied that an English lady of title, who had also been for a long time in the country, had formed this opinion. But when I questioned dancing-girls myself, I found them quite ignorant of any language except Arabic, and knowing nothing relating to the Rommany. Two Ghawâzi whom I saw had, indeed, the peculiarly brilliant eyes and general expression of Gipsies. The rest appeared to be Egyptian-Arab; and I found on inquiry that one of the latter had really been a peasant girl who till within seven months had worked in the fields, while two others were occupied alternately with field-work and dancing.
At the market in Boulac, Mahomet took me to a number of Rhagarin. They all resembled the one whom I have described, and were all occupied in selling exactly the same class of articles. They all differed slightly, as I thought, from the ordinary Egyptians in their appearance, and were decidedly unlike them, in being neither importunate for money nor disagreeable in their manners. But though they were certainly Gipsies, none of them would speak Rommany, and I doubt very much if they could have done so.
Bonaventura Vulcanius, who in 1597 first gave the world a specimen of Rommany in his curious book “De Literis et Lingua Getarum” (which specimen, by the way, on account of its rarity, I propose to republish in another work), believed that the Gipsies were Nubians; and others, following in his track, supposed they were really Cophtic Christians (Pott, “Die Zigeuner,” &c., Halle, 1844, p. 5). And I must confess that this recurred forcibly to my memory when, at Minieh, in Egypt, I asked a Copht scribe if he were Muslim, and he replied, “La, ana Gipti” (“No, I am a Copht”), pronouncing the word Gipti, or Copht, so that it might readily be taken for “Gipsy.” And learning that romi is the Cophtic for a man, I was again startled; and when I found tema (tem, land) and other Rommany words in ancient Egyptian (vide Brugsch, “Grammaire,” &c.), it seemed as if there were still many mysteries to solve in this strange language.
Other writers long before me attempted to investigate Egyptian Gipsy, but with no satisfactory result. A German named Seetzen ascertained that there were Gipsies both in Egypt and Syria, and wrote (1806) on the subject a MS., which Pott (“Die Zigeuner,” &c.) cites largely. Of these Roms he speaks as follows: “Gipsies are to be found in the entire Osmanli realm, from the limits of Hungary into Egypt. The Turks call them Tschinganih; but the Syrians and Egyptians, as well as themselves, Nury, in the plural El Naúar. It was on the 24th November 1806 when I visited a troop of them, encamped with their black tents in an olive grove, to the west side of Naplos. They were for the greater part of a dirty yellow complexion, with black hair, which hung down on the side from where it was parted in a short plait, and their lips are mulatto-like.” (Seetzen subsequently remarks that their physiognomy is precisely like that of the modern Egyptians.) “The women had their under lips coloured dark blue, like female Bedouins, and a few eaten-in points around the mouth of like colour. They, and the boys also, wore earrings. They made sieves of horse-hair or of leather, iron nails, and similar small ironware, or mended kettles. They appear to be very poor, and the men go almost naked, unless the cold compels them to put on warmer clothing. The little boys ran about naked. Although both Christians and Mahometans declared that they buried their dead in remote hill corners, or burned them, they denied it, and declared they were good Mahometans, and as such buried their dead in Mahometan cemeteries.” (This corresponds to their custom in Great Britain in the past generation, and the earnestness which they display at present to secure regular burial like Christians.) “But as their instruction is even more neglected than that of the Bedouins, their religious information is so limited that one may say of them, they have either no religion at all, or the simplest of all. As to wine, they are less strict than most Mahometans. They assured me that in Egypt there were many Nury.”
The same writer obtained from one of these Syrian-Egyptian Gipsies a not inconsiderable vocabulary of their language, and says: “I find many Arabic, Turkish, and some Greek words in it; it appears to me, however, that they have borrowed from a fourth language, which was perhaps their mother-tongue, but which I cannot name, wanting dictionaries.” The words which he gives appear to me to consist of Egyptian-Arabic, with its usual admixture from other sources, simply made into a gibberish, and sometimes with one word substituted for another to hide the meaning—the whole probably obtained through a dragoman, as is seen, for instance, when he gives the word nisnaszehá, a fox, and states that it is of unknown origin. The truth is, nisnas means a monkey, and, like most of Seetzen’s “Nuri” words, is inflected with an á final, as if one should say “monkeyó.” I have no doubt the Nauár may talk such a jargon; but I should not be astonished, either, if the Shekh who for a small pecuniary consideration eagerly aided Seetzen to note it down, had “sold” him with what certainly would appear to any Egyptian to be the real babble of the nursery. There are a very few Rommany words in this vocabulary, but then it should be remembered that there are some Arabic words in Rommany.
The street-cry of the Gipsy women in Cairo is [ARABIC TEXT which cannot be reproduced] “Neduqq wanetahir!” “We tattoo and circumcise!” a phrase which sufficiently indicates their calling. In the “Deutscher Dragoman” of Dr Philip Wolff, Leipzig, 1867, I find the following under the word Zigeuner:—
“Gipsy—in Egypt, Gagrî” (pronounced more nearly ’Rh’agri), “plural Gagar; in Syria, Newarî, plural Nawar. When they go about with monkeys, they are called Kurudâti, from kird, ape. The Gipsies of Upper Egypt call themselves Saâideh—i.e., people from Said, or Upper Egypt (vide Kremer, i. 138-148). According to Von Gobineau, they are called in Syria Kurbati, [ARABIC TEXT which cannot be reproduced] (vide ‘Zeitschrift der D. M. G.,’ xi. 690).”
More than this of the Gipsies in Egypt the deponent sayeth not. He has interrogated the oracles, and they were dumb. That there are Roms in the land of Mizr his eyes have shown, but whether any of them can talk Rommany is to him as yet unknown.
* * * * *
Since the foregoing was printed, I have found in the Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society (Vol. XVI., Part 2, 1856, p. 285), an article on The Gipsies in Egypt, by the late Captain Newbold, F.R.S., which gives much information on this mysterious subject. The Egyptian Gipsies, as Captain Newbold found, are extremely jealous and suspicious of any inquiry into their habits and mode of life, so that he had great difficulty in tracing them to their haunts, and inducing them to unreserved communication.
These Gipsies are divided into three kinds, the Helebis, Ghagars (Rhagarin), and Núris or Náwer. Of the Rhagars there are sixteen thousand. The Helebi are most prosperous of all these, and their women, who are called Fehemis, are the only ones who practice fortune-telling and sorcery. The male Helebis are chiefly ostensible dealers in horses and cattle, but have a bad character for honesty. Some of them are to be found in every official department in Egypt, though not known to be Gipsies—(a statement which casts much light on the circumstance that neither the chief of police himself nor the Shekh of the Rhagarin, with all their alleged efforts, could find a single Gipsy for me). The Helebis look down on the Rhagarin, and do not suffer their daughters to intermarry with them, though they themselves marry Rhagarin girls. The Fehemi, or Helebi women, are noted for their chastity; the Rhagarin are not. The men of the Rhagarin are tinkers and blacksmiths, and sell cheap jewellery or instruments of iron and brass. Many of them are athletes, mountebanks, and monkey-exhibitors; the women are rope-dancers and musicians. They are divided into classes, bearing the names of Romani, Meddahin, Ghurradin, Barmeki (Barmecides), Waled Abu Tenna, Beit er Rafái, Hemmeli, &c. The Helebis and Rhagarin are distinctly different in their personal appearance from the other inhabitants of Egypt, having the eyes and expression peculiar to all Gipsies. Captain Newbold, in fact, assumes that any person “who remains in Egypt longer than the ordinary run of travellers, and roams about the streets and environs of the large towns, can hardly fail to notice the strange appearance of certain females, whose features at once distinguish them from the ordinary Fellah Arabs and Cophts of the country.”
“The Nuris or Náwers are hereditary thieves, but are now (1856) employed as police and watchmen in the Pacha’s country estates. In Egypt they intermarry with the Fellahin or Arabs of the soil, from whom, in physical appearance and dress, they can hardly be distinguished. Outwardly they profess Mohammedanism, and have little intercourse with the Helebis and Ghagars (or Rhagarin).”
Each of these tribes or classes speak a separate and distinct dialect or jargon. That of the Rhagarin most resembles the language spoken by the Kurbáts, or Gipsies of Syria. “It seems to me probable,” says Captain Newbold, “that the whole of these tribes had one common origin in India, or the adjacent countries on its Western frontier, and that the difference in the jargons they now speak is owing to their sojourn in the various countries through which they have passed. This is certain, that the Gipsies are strangers in the land of Egypt.”
I am not astonished, on examining the specimens of these three dialects given by Captain Newbold, with the important addition made by Mr W. Burckhardt Barker, that I could not converse with the Rhagarin. That of the Náwers does not contain a single word which would be recognised as Rommany, while those which occur in the other two jargons are, if not positively either few and far between, strangely distorted from the original. A great number are ordinary vulgar Arabic. It is very curious that while in England such a remarkably large proportion of Hindustani words have been preserved, they have been lost in the East, in countries comparatively near the fatherland—India.
I would, in conclusion to this work, remark that numbers of Rommany words, which are set down by philologists as belonging to Greek, Slavonian, and other languages, were originally Hindu, and have only changed their form a little because the wanderers found a resemblance to the old word in a new one. I am also satisfied that much may be learned as to the origin of these words from a familiar acquaintance with the vulgar dialects of Persia, and such words as are not put down in dictionaries, owing to their provincial character. I have found, on questioning a Persian gentleman, that he knew the meaning of many Rommany words from their resemblance to vulgar Persian, though they were not in the Persian dictionary which I used.
The Gipsy to whom I was chiefly indebted for the material of this book frequently narrated to me the Gudli or small stories current among his people, and being a man of active, though child-like imagination, often invented others of a similar character. Sometimes an incident or saying would suggest to me the outline of a narrative, upon which he would eagerly take it up, and readily complete the tale. But if I helped him sometimes to evolve from a hint, a phrase, or a fact, something like a picture, it was always the Gipsy who gave it Rommany characteristics and conferred colour. It was often very difficult for him to distinctly recall an old story or clearly develop anything of the kind, whether it involved an effort of memory or of the imagination, and here he required aid. I have never in my life met with any man whose mind combined so much simplicity, cunning, and grotesque fancy, with such an entire incapacity to appreciate either humour or “poetry” as expressed in the ordinary language of culture. The metre and rhyme of the simplest ballad made it unintelligible to him, and I was obliged to repeat such poetry several times before he could comprehend it. Yet he would, while I was otherwise occupied than with him, address to his favourite wooden image of a little bear on the chimneypiece, grotesque soliloquies which would have delighted a Hoffman, or conduct with it dialogues which often startled me. With more education, he would have become a Rommany Bid-pai; and since India is the fatherland of the fable, he may have derived his peculiar faculty for turning morals and adorning tales legitimately from that source.
I may state that those stories, which were made entirely; as a few were; or in part, by my assistant and myself, were afterwards received with approbation by ordinary Gipsies as being thoroughly Rommany. As to the language of the stories, it is all literally and faithfully that of a Gipsy, word by word, written down as he uttered it, when, after we had got a gudlo into shape, he told it finally over, which he invariably did with great eagerness, ending with an improvised moral.
‘Pré yeck dívvus (or yéckorus) a Rommany chal was kairin’ pýass with the koshters, an’ he wussered a kosh ’pré the hev of a boro ker an’ poggered it. Welled the prastramengro and penned, “Tu must póoker (or péssur) for the glass.” But when they jawed adrée the ker, they lastered the kosh had mullered a divio júckal that was jawán’ to dant the chavo. So the rāni del the Rommany chal a sónnakai óra an’ a fíno gry.
But yeck koshter that poggers a hev doesn’t muller a juckal.
On a day (or once) a Gipsy was playing at cockshy, and he threw a stick through the window of a great house and broke the glass. Came the policeman and said, “You must answer (or pay) for the glass.” But when they went into the house, they found the stick had killed a mad dog that was going to bite the child (boy). So the lady gave the Gipsy a gold watch and a good horse.
But every stick that breaks a window does not kill a dog.
’Pré yeck divvus a hótchewítchi dicked a chillico adrée the puv, and the chillico pūkkered lesco, “Mor jāl paūli by the kúshto wástus, or the hunters’ graias will chiv tute adrée the chick, mullo; an’ if you jāl the waver rikk by the bongo wast, dovo’s a Rommany tan adoi, and the Rommany chals will haw tute.” Penned the hótchewítchi, “I’d rather jāl with the Rommany chals, an’ be hawed by foki that kaum mandy, than be pirraben apré by chals that dick kaulo apré mandy.”
It’s kushtier for a tácho Rom to be mullered by a Rommany pal than to be náshered by the Gorgios.
On a day a hedgehog met a bird in the field, and the bird told him, “Do not go around by the right hand, or the hunters’ horses will trample you dead in the dirt; and if you go around by the left hand, there’s a Gipsy tent, and the Gipsies will eat you.” Said the hedgehog, “I’d rather go with the Gipsies, and be eaten by folk that like me, than be trampled on by people that despise (literally, look black upon) me.”
It is better for a real Gipsy to be killed by a Gipsy brother than to be hung by Gorgios.
Yeckorus a tāno Gorgio chivved apré a shubo an’ jālled to a puri Rommany dye to get dúkkered. And she póokered lester, “Tute’ll rummorben a Fair Man with kauli yākkas.” Then the raklo delled lāki yeck shukkori an’ penned, “If this shukkori was as boro as the hockaben tute pukkered mandy, tute might porder sār the bongo tem with rupp.” But, hatch a wongish!—maybe in a dívvus, maybe in a cúrricus, maybe a dood, maybe a besh, maybe wāver dívvus, he rúmmorbend a rākli by the nav of Fair Man, and her yākkas were as kaulo as miri júva’s.
There’s always dui rikk to a dúkkerben.
Once a little Gorgio put on a woman’s gown and went to an old Gipsy mother to have his fortune told. And she told him, “You’ll marry a Fair Man with black eyes.” Then the young man gave her a sixpence and said, “If this sixpence were as big as the lie you told me, you could fill all hell with silver.” But, stop a bit! after a while—maybe in a week, maybe a month, maybe in a year, maybe the other day—he married a girl by the name of Fair Man, and her eyes were as black as my sweetheart’s.
There are always two sides to a prediction.
’Pré yeck dívvus a Royston rookus jālled mongin the kaulo chiriclos, an’ they putched (pootschered) him, “Where did tute chore tiro pauno chúkko?” And yuv pookered, “Mandy chored it from a bikshérro of a pigeon.” Then he jālled a-men the pigeons an’ penned, “Sárishan, pals?” And they pūtched lesti, “Where did tute lel akovo kauli rokámyas te byáscros?” And yuv penned, “Mandy chored ’em from those wafri múshis the rookuses.”
Pāsh-rātis pen their kókeros for Gorgios mongin Gorgios, and for Rommany mongin Rommany chals.
On a day a Royston rook {206} went among the crows (black birds), and they asked him, “Where did you steal your white coat?” And he told (them), “I stole it from a fool of a pigeon.” Then he went among the pigeons and said, “How are you, brothers?” And they asked him, “Where did you get those black trousers and sleeves?” And he said, “I stole ’em from those wretches the rooks.”
Half-breeds call themselves Gorgio among Gorgios, and Gipsy among Gipsies.
Once ’pré a chairus (or chýrus) a Gorgio penned to a Rommany chal, “Why does tute always jāl about the tem ajaw? There’s no kushtoben in what don’t hatch acäi.” Penned the Rommany chal, “Sikker mandy tute’s wóngur!” And yuv sikkered him a cutter (cotter?), a bar, a pāsh-bar, a pāsh-cutter, a pange-cullo (caulor?) bittus, a pāsh-krooner (koraúna), a dui-cullos bittus, a trin-mushi, a shuckóri, a stor’óras, a trin’óras, a dui’óras, a haura, a poshéro, a lúlli, a pāsh-lúlli. Penned the Rommany chal, “Acovo’s sār wáfri wóngur.” “Kek,” penned the Gorgio; “se sār kushto an’ kirus. Chiv it adrée tute’s wast and shoon it ringus.” “Āvo,” penned the Rommany chal. “Tute pookered mandy that only wáfri covvas keep jāllin’, te ’covo wóngur has jālled sar ’pré the ‘tem adusta timei (or timey).”
Sār mushis aren’t all sim ta rúkers (rúkkers.) Some must pírraben, and can’t besh’t a lay.
Once upon a time a Gorgio said to a Gipsy, “Why do you always go about the country so? There is ‘no good’ in what does not rest (literally, stop here).” Said the Gipsy, “Show me your money!” And he showed him a guinea, a sovereign, a half-sovereign, a half-guinea, a five-shilling piece, a half-crown, a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a sixpence, a fourpenny piece, a threepence, a twopence, a penny, a halfpenny, a farthing, a half-farthing. Said the Gipsy, “This is all bad money.” “No,” said the other man; “it is all good and sound. Toss it in your hand and hear it ring!” “Yes,” replied the Gipsy. “You told me that only bad things keep going, and this money has gone all over the country many a time.”
All men are not like trees. Some must travel, and cannot keep still.
Once apré a chairus a Rommany chal chored a rāni chillico (or chiriclo), and then jālled atút a prastraméngro ’pré the drum. “Where did tute chore adovo rāni?” putchered the prastramengro. “It’s kek rāni; it’s a pauno rāni that I kinned ’drée the gav to del tute.” “Tácho,” penned the prastraméngro, “it’s the kushtiest pauno rāni mandy ever dickdus. Ki did tute kin it?”
Āvali, many’s the chairus mandy’s tippered a trinmushi to a prastraméngro ta mukk mandy hatch my tan with the chávvis.
Once on a time a Gipsy stole a turkey, and then met a policeman on the road. “Where did you steal that turkey?” asked the policeman. “It’s no turkey; it’s a goose that I bought in the town to give you.” “Fact,” said the policeman, “it is the finest goose I ever saw. Where did you buy it?”
Yes, many’s the time I have given a shilling (three fourpence) to a policeman to let me pitch my tent with the children. {209}
Yeckorus a choro mush besht a lay ta kair trin horras-worth o’ peggi for a māséngro. There jessed alang’s a rye, who penned, “Tool my gry, an’ I’ll del tute a shukóri.” While he tooled the gry a rāni pookered him, “Rikker this trúshni to my ker, an’ I’ll del tute a trin grushi.” So he lelled a chavo to tool the gry, and pookered lester, “Tute shall get pāsh the wongur.” Well, as yuv was rikkinin’ the trúshnee an’ siggerin burry ora bender the drum, he dicked a rye, who penned, “If tute’ll jaw to the ker and hatch minni’s júckal ta mandy, mi’ll del tute a pash-koraúna.” So he got a waver chávo to rikker the trúshnee for pāsh the wongur, whilst he jālled for the júckal. Wellin’ alángus, he dicked a bárvelo givéscro, who penned, “‘Avacai an’ hūsker mandy to lel my gurúvni (grūvni) avree the ditch, and I’ll del you pange cullos” (caulos). So he lelled it. But at the kūnsus of the divvus, sā yuv sus kennin apré sustis wóngurs, he penned, “How wafro it is mandy nashered the trinóras I might have lelled for the māss-kóshters!”
A mush must always pet the giv in the puv before he can chin the harvest.
Once a poor man sat down to make threepence-worth of skewers {210} for a butcher. There came along a gentleman, who said, “Hold my horse, and I’ll give you a sixpence.” While he held the horse a lady said to him, “Carry this basket to my house, and I’ll give you a shilling.” So he got a boy to hold the horse, and said to him, “You shall have half the money.” Well, as he was carrying the basket and hurrying along fast across the road he saw a gentleman, who said, “If you’ll go to the house and bring my dog to me, I will give you half-a-crown.” So he got another boy to carry the basket for half the money, while he went for the dog. Going along, he saw a rich farmer, who said, “Come and help me here to get my cow out of the ditch, and I’ll give you five shillings.” So he got it. But at the end of the day, when he was counting his money, he said, “What a pity it is I lost the threepence I might have got for the skewers!” (literally, meat-woods.)
A man must always put the grain in the ground before he can cut the harvest.
’Pré yeck divvus a choro mush had a júckal that used to chore covvas and hākker them to the kér for his mush—mass, wóngur, hóras, and rooys. A rye kinned the júckal, an’ kaired boot dusta wóngur by sikkerin’ the júckal at wellgóoras.
Where bárvelo mushis can kair wóngur tácho, chori mushis have to loure.
On a day a poor man had a dog that used to steal things and carry them home for his master—meat, money, watches, and spoons. A gentleman bought the dog, and made a great deal of money by showing him at fairs.
Where rich men can make money honestly, poor men have to steal.
’Pré yeck chairus a cooroméngro was to coor, and a rye rākkered him, “Will tute mukk your kókero be koored for twenty bar?” Penned the cooroméngro, “Will tute mukk mandy pogger your hérry for a hundred bar?” “Kek,” penned the rye; “for if I did, mandy’d never pirro kushto ajaw.” “And if I nashered a kóoraben,” penned the éngro, “mandy’d never praster kekóomi.”
Kāmmoben is kushtier than wóngur.
On a time a prize-fighter was to fight, and a gentleman asked him, “Will you sell the fight” (i.e., let yourself be beaten) “for twenty pounds?” Said the prize-fighter, “Will you let me break your leg for a hundred pounds?” “No,” said the gentleman; “for if I did, I should never walk well again.” “And if I lost a fight,” said the prize-fighter (literally, master, doer), “I could never ‘run’ again.”
Credit is better than money.
Pré yeck chairus a Rommany dye adrée the wellgooro rākkered a rye to del lāker trin mushi for kushto bāk. An’ he del it, an’ putchered láki, “If I bitcher my wóngur a-múkkerin’ ’pré the graias, ki’ll manni’s bāk be?” “My fino rye,” she penned, “the bāk’ll be a collos-worth with mandy and my chávvis.”
Bāk that’s pessured for is saw (sār) adöi.
On a time a Gipsy mother at the fair asked a gentleman to give her a shilling for luck. And he gave it, and asked her, “If I lose my money a-betting on the horses, where will my luck be?” “My fine gentleman,” she said, “the luck will be a shilling’s worth with me and my children.”
Luck that is paid for is always somewhere (literally, there).
Yeckorus the matchka jālled to dick her kako’s chávo the kanéngro. An’ there welled a huntingmush, an’ the matchka taddied up the choomber, pré durer, pré a rukk, an’ odöi she lastered a chillico’s nest. But the kanéngro prastered alay the choomber, longodurus adrée the tem.
Wafri bāk kairs
A choro mush ta jāl alay,
But it mukks a boro mush
To chiv his kokero apré. {213}
Once the cat went to see her cousin the hare. And there came a hunter, and the cat scrambled up the hill, further up, up a tree, and there she found a bird’s nest. But the hare ran down the hill, far down into the country.
Bad luck sends a poor man further down, but it causes a great man to rise still more.
Pre yeck cháirus a chi jālled adrée a waver tem, an’ she rikkered a gunno pré lāki dumo with a baulo adrée. A rakli who was ladge of her tikno chored the baulo avree the gunno and chivved the chavi adrée. Pasch a waver hora the chi shooned the tikno rov (ruvving), and dicked adrée the gunno in boro toob, and penned, “If the baulos in akovo tem púraben into chávos, sā do the chávos púraben adrée?”
Once a woman went into a strange land, and she carried a bag on her back with a pig in it. A girl who was ashamed of her child stole the pig from the bag and put the baby in (its place). After an hour the woman heard the child cry, and looked into the bag with great amazement, and said, “If the pigs in this country change into children, into what do the children change?”
’Pré yeck divvus a Rommany dye dūkkered a rakli, and pookered lāki that a kaulo rye kaumed her. But when the chi putchered her wóngur, the rakli penned, “Puri dye, I haven’t got a poshéro to del túté. But pen mandy the nav of the kaulo rye.” Then the dye shelled avree, very húnnalo, “Beng is the nav of tute’s pírryno, and yuv se kaulo adusta.”
If you chore puri juvas tute’ll lel the beng.
On a day a Gipsy mother told a girl’s fortune, and said to her that a dark (black) gentleman loved her. But when the woman demanded her money, the girl said, “Old mother, I haven’t got a halfpenny to give you. But tell me the name of the dark gentleman.” Then the mother roared out, very angry, “Devil is the name of your sweetheart, and he is black enough.”
If you cheat old women you will catch the devil.
Yeckorus a mush chored a gry and jālled him avree adrée a waver tem, and the gry and the mush jālled kushti bāk kéttenus. Penned the gry to his mush, “I kaums your covvas to wearus kushtier than mandy’s, for there’s kek chúcknee or méllicus (pusimígree) adrée them.” “Kek,” penned the mush pauli; “the trash I lel when mandy jins of the prastramengro an’ the bitcherin’ mush (krallis mush) is wafrier than any chucknee or būsaha, an’ they’d kair mandy to praster my míramon (miraben) avree any divvus.”
Once a man stole a horse and ran him away into another country, and the horse and the man became very intimate. Said the horse to the man, “I like your things to wear better than I do mine, for there’s no whip or spur among them.” “No,” replied the man; “the fear I have when I think of the policeman and of the judge (sending or “transporting” man, or king’s man) is worse than any whip or spur, and they would make me run my life away any day.”
’Pré yeck divvus there was a mush a-piin’ mā his Rommany chals adrée a kitchema, an’ pauli a chairus he got pash mātto. An’ he penned about mullo baulors, that he never hawed kek. Kennā-sig his juvo welled adrée an’ putched him to jāl kerri, but yuv pookered her, “Kek—I won’t jāl kenna.” Then she penned, “Well alang, the chavvis got kek hābben.” So she putchered him ajaw an’ ajaw, an’ he always rākkered her pauli “Kek.” So she lelled a mullo baulor ap her dumo and wussered it ’pré the haumescro pré saw the foki, an’ penned, “Lel the mullo baulor an’ rummer it, an’ mandy’ll dick pauli the chavos.”
Once there was a man drinking with his Gipsy fellows in an alehouse, and after a while he got half drunk. And he said of pigs that had died a natural death, he never ate any. By-and-by his wife came in and asked him to go home, but he told her, “No—I won’t go now.” Then she said, “Come along, the children have no food.” So she entreated him again and again, and he always answered “No.” So she took a pig that had died a natural death, from her back and threw it on the table before all the people, and said, “Take the dead pig for a wife, and I will look after the children.” {218}
My raia, the gudlo of the Seven Whistlers, you jin, is adrée the Scriptures—so they pookered mandy.
An’ the Seven Whistlers (Efta Shellengeri) is seven spirits of rānis that jāl by the ratti, ’pré the bávol, parl the heb, like chíllicos. An’ it pookers ’drée the Bible that the Seven Whistlers shell wherever they praster atút the bávol. But adúro timeus yeck jālled avree an’ got nashered, and kennā there’s only shove; but they pens ’em the Seven Whistlers. An’ that sims the story tute pookered mandy of the Seven Stars.
Sir, the story of the Seven Whistlers, you know, is in the Scriptures—so they told me.
An’ the Seven Whistlers are seven spirits of ladies that go by the night, through the air, over the heaven, like birds. And it tells (us) in the Bible that the Seven Whistlers whistle wherever they fly across the air. But a long time ago one went away and got lost, and now there are only six; but they call them the Seven Whistlers. And that is like the story you told me of the Seven Stars. {219}
A Rommany rákli yeckorus jālled to a ker a-dukkerin’. A’ter she jālled avree, the rákli of the ker missered a plāchta, and pookered the rye that the Rommany chi had chored it. So the rye jālled aduro pauli the tem, and latched the Rommany chals, and bitchered them to stáruben. Now this was adrée the púro chairus when they used to nasher mushis for any bitti cóvvo. And some of the Rommany chals were nashered, an’ some pannied. An’ sār the gunnos, an’ kávis, and cóvvas of the Rommanis were chivved and pordered kéttenus ’pré the bor adrée the cángry-pūv, an’ kek mush tooled ’em. An’ trin dood (or munti) pauli, the rákli was kairin’ the baulors’ habben at the kókero ker, when she latched the plāchta they nashered trin dood adóvo divvus. So the rákli jālled with the plachta ta lāki rye, and penned, “Dick what I kaired on those chúvvenny, chori Rommany chals that were náshered and pannied for adóvo bitti cóvvo adöi!”
And when they jālled to dick at the Rommanis’ cóvvas pauli the bor adrée the cángry-pūv, the gunnos were pordo and chivved adrée, chingered saw to cut-engroes, and they latched ’em full o’ ruppeny covvos—rooys an’ churls of sonnakai, an’ oras, curros an’ piimangris, that had longed o’ the Rommany chals that were nashered an’ bitschered pādel.
A Gipsy girl once went to a house to tell fortunes. After she went away, the girl of the house missed a pudding-bag (literally, linen cloth), and told the master the Gipsy girl had stolen it. So the master went far about the country, and found the Gipsies, and sent them to prison. Now this was in the old time when they used to hang people for any little thing. And some of the Gipsies were hung, and some transported (literally, watered). And all the bags, and kettles, and things of the Gipsies were thrown and piled together behind the hedge in the churchyard, and no man touched them. And three months after, the maid was preparing the pigs’ food at the same house, when she found the linen cloth they lost three months (before) that day. So the girl went with the cloth to her master, and said, “See what I did to those poor, poor Gipsies that were hung and transported for that trifle (there)!”
And when they went to look at the Gipsies’ things behind the hedge in the churchyard, the bags were full and burst, torn all to rags, and they found them full of silver things—spoons and knives of gold, and watches, cups and teapots, that had belonged to the Gipsies that were hung and transported. {221a}
Did mandy ever jāl to kangry? Āvali, dui koppas, and beshed a lay odöi. I was adrée the tāle tem o’ sār, an’ a rye putched mandy to well to kangry, an’ I welled. And sār the ryas an’ ranis dicked at mandy as I jālled adrée. {221b} So I beshed pukkenus mongin some geeros and dicked upar again the chumure praller my sherro, and there was a deer and a kanengro odöi chinned in the bar, an’ kaired kushto. I shooned the rashai a-rākkerin’; and when the shunaben was kérro, I welled avree and jālled alay the drum to the kitchema.
I latchered the raias mush adrée the kitchema; so we got mātto odöi, an’ were jallin’ kerri alay the drum when we dicked the raias wardo a-wellin’. So we jālled sig ’dusta parl the bor, an’ gavered our kokeros odöi adrée the pūv till the rye had jessed avree.
I dicked adovo rye drée the sala, and he putched mandy what I’d kaired the cauliko, pāsh kangry. I pookered him I’d pii’d dui or trin curros levinor and was pāsh mātto. An’ he penned mandy, “My mush was mātto sār tute, and I nashered him.” I pookered him ajaw, “I hope not, rya, for such a bitti covvo as dovo; an’ he aint cāmmoben to piin’ levinor, he’s only used to pabengro, that don’t kair him mātto.” But kek, the choro mush had to jāl avree. An’ that’s sār I can rakker tute about my jāllin’ to kangry.
Did I ever go to church? Yes, twice, and sat down there. I was in the lower land of all (Cornwall), and a gentleman asked me to go to church, and I went. And all the ladies and gentlemen looked at me as I went in. So I sat quietly among some men and looked up on the wall above my head, and there were a deer and a rabbit cut in the stone, beautifully done. I heard the clergyman speaking; and when the sermon was ended (literally, made), I came out and went down the road to the alehouse.
I found the gentleman’s servant in the alehouse; so we got drunk there, and were going home down the road when we saw the gentleman’s carriage coming. So we went quickly enough over the hedge, and hid ourselves there in the field until the gentleman was gone.
I saw the gentleman in the morning, and he asked me what I had done the day before, after church. I told him I’d drunk two or three cups of ale and was half tipsy. And he said, “My man was drunk as you, and I sent him off.” I told him then, “I hope not, sir, for such a little thing as that; and he is not used to drink ale, he’s only accustomed to cider, that don’t intoxicate him.” But no, the poor man had to go away. And that’s all I can tell you about my going to church.
Penned the tikni Rommani chavi lāki pal, “More mor the pishom, ’cause she’s a Rommani, and kairs her jivaben jāllin’ parl the tem dukkerin’ the ruzhas and lellin’ the gudlo avree ’em, sār moro dye dukkers the rānis. An’ mā wusser bars at the rookas, ’cause they’re kaulos, an’ kaulo rātt is Rommany rātt. An’ maun pogger the bawris, for yuv rikkers his tan pré the dumo, sār moro puro dádas, an’ so yuv’s Rommany.”
Said the little Gipsy girl to her brother, “Don’t kill the bee, because she is a Gipsy, and makes her living going about the country telling fortunes to the flowers and taking honey out of them, as our mother tells fortunes to the ladies. And don’t throw stones at the rooks, because they are dark, and dark blood is Gipsy blood. And don’t crush the snail, for he carries his tent on his back, like our old father” (i.e., carries his home about, and so he too is Rommany).
I jinned a tāno mush yeckorus that nashered sār his wongur ’drée the toss-ring. Then he jālled kerri to his dádas’ kanyas and lelled pange bar avree. Paul’ a bitti chairus he dicked his dádas an’ pookered lester he’d lelled pange bar avree his gunnas. But yuv’s dádas penned, “Jāl an, kair it ajaw and win some wongur againus!” So he jālled apopli to the toss-ring an’ lelled sār his wongur pauli, an’ pange bar ferridearer. So he jālled ajaw kerri to the tan, an’ dicked his dádas beshtin’ alay by the rikk o’ the tan, and his dádas penned, “Sā did you keravit, my chavo?” “Kushto, dádas. I lelled sār my wongur pauli; and here’s tute’s wongur acäi, an’ a bar for tute an’ shtār bar for mi-kokero.”
An’ that’s tācho as ever you tool that pen in tute’s waster—an’ dovo mush was poor Charley Lee, that’s mullo kennā.
I knew a little fellow once that lost all his money in the toss-ring (i.e., at pitch-and-toss). Then he went home to his father’s sacks and took five pounds out. After a little while he saw his father and told him he’d taken five pounds from his bags. But his father said, “Go on, spend it and win some more money!” So he went again to the toss-ring and got all his money back, and five pounds more. And going home, he saw his father sitting by the side of the tent, and his father said, “How did you succeed (i.e., do it), my son?” “Very well, father. I got all my money back; and here’s your money now, and a pound for you and four pounds for myself.”
And that’s true as ever you hold that pen in your hand—and that man was poor Charley Lee, that’s dead now.
A petulamengro hatched yeck divvus at a givéscro kér, where the rāni del him māss an’ tood. While he was hawin’ he dicked a kekávi sār chicklo an’ bongo, pāshall a boro hev adrée, an’ he putchered, “Del it a mandy an’ I’ll lel it avree for chichi, ’cause you’ve been so kushto an’ kāmmoben to mandy.” So she del it a lester, an’ he jālled avree for trin cooricus, an’ he keravit apré, an’ kaired it pauno sār rupp. Adovo he welled akovo drum pauli, an’ jessed to the same kér, an’ penned, “Dick acai at covi kushti kekávi! I del shove trin mushis for it, an’ tu shall lel it for the same wongur, ’cause you’ve been so kushto a mandy.”
Dovo mush was like boot ’dusta mushis—wery cāmmoben to his kokero.
A tinker stopped one day at a farmer’s house, where the lady gave him meat and milk. While he was eating he saw a kettle all rusty and bent, with a great hole in it, and he asked, “Give it to me and I will take it away for nothing, because you have been so kind and obliging to me.” So she gave it to him, and he went away for three weeks, and he repaired it (the kettle), and made it as bright (white) as silver. Then he went that road again, to the same house, and said, “Look here at this fine kettle! I gave six shillings for it, and you shall have it for the same money, because you have been so good to me.”
That man was like a great many men—very benevolent to himself.
If a Rommany chal gets nashered an’ can’t latch his drum i’ the rātti, he shells avree, “Hup, hup—Rom-ma-ny, Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” When the chavvis can’t latch the tan, it’s the same gudlo, “Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” Jōter pens kett’nus.
And yeck rātti my dádas, sixty besh kennā, was pirryin’ par the weshes to tan, an’ he shooned a bitti gúdlo like bitti rānis a rākkerin’ puro tácho Rommanis, and so he jālled from yeck boro rukk to the waver, and paul’ a cheirus he dicked a tāni rāni, and she was shellin’ avree for her miraben, “Rom-ma-ny, Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” So my dáda shokkered ajaw, “Rom-ma-ny chal, ak-ái!” But as he shelled there welled a boro bavol, and the bitti rānis an’ sār prastered avree i’ the heb like chillicos adrée a starmus, and all he shunned was a savvaben and “Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” shukàridir an’ shukàridir, pash sar was kerro.
An’ you can dick by dovo that the kukalos, an’ fairies, an’ mullos, and chovihans all rākker pūro tàcho Rommanis, ’cause that’s the old ’Gyptian jib that was penned adrée the Scripture tem.
If a Gipsy is lost and cannot find his way in the night, he cries out, “Hup, hup—Rom-ma-ny, Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” When the children cannot find the tent, it is the same cry, “Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” Joter means together.
And one night my father, sixty years ago (literally, now), was walking through the woods to his tent, and he heard a little cry like little ladies talking real old Gipsy, and so he went from one great tree to the other (i.e., concealing himself), and after a while he saw a little lady, and she was crying out as if for her life, “Rom-ma-ny, Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” So my father cried again, “Gipsy, here!” But as he hallooed there came a great blast of wind, and the little ladies and all flew away in the sky like birds in a storm, and all he heard was a laughing and “Rom-ma-ny jō-ter!” softer and softer, till all was done.
And you can see by that that the goblins (dwarfs, mannikins), and fairies, and ghosts, and witches, and all talk real old Gipsy, because that is the old Egyptian language that was talked in the Scripture land.
Yeckorus a Rommany chal kaired adusta wongur, and was boot barvelo an’ a boro rye. His chuckko was kāshno, an’ the crafnies ’pré lester chuckko were o’ sonnakai, and his graias solivaris an’ guiders were sār ruppeny. Yeck divvus this here Rommany rye was hawin’ habben anerjāl the krallis’s chavo, an’ they hatched adrée a weshni kānni that was kannelo, but saw the mushis penned it was kūshtidearer. “Bless mi-Duvel!” rākkered the Rommany rye shukár to his juvo, “tu and mandy have hawed mullo mass boot ’dusta cheiruses, mi-deari, but never soomed kek so wafro as dovo. It kauns worse than a mullo grai!”
Boro mushis an’ bitti mushis sometimes kaum covvas that waver mushis don’t jin.
Once a Gipsy made much money, and was very rich and a great gentleman. His coat was silk, and the buttons on his coat were of gold, and his horse’s bridle and reins were all silver. One day this Gipsy gentleman was eating (at table) opposite to the king’s son, and they brought in a pheasant that smelt badly, but all the people said it was excellent. “Bless me, God!” said the Gipsy gentleman softly (whispering) to his wife, “you and I have eaten dead meat (meat that died a natural death) many a time, my dear, but never smelt anything so bad as that. It stinks worse than a dead horse!”
Great men and small men sometimes like (agree in liking things) that which other people do not understand.
Yeckorus a choro Rommany chal dicked a rāni hatch taller the wuder of a boro ker an’ mukked adovo a bitti lil. Then he putched the rakli, when the rāni jessed avree, what the lil kaired. Adoi the rakli pukkered lesco it was for her rāni ta jin kun’d welled a dick her. “Āvali!” penned the Rommany chal; “that’s the way the Gorgios mukks their patteran! We mukks char apré the drum.”
The grai mukks his pirro apré the drum, an’ the sap kairs his trail adrée the pūv.
Once a poor Gipsy saw a lady stop before the door of a great house and left there a card (little letter). Then he asked the girl, when the lady went away, what the card meant (literally, did). Then (there) the girl told him it was for her lady to know who had come to see her. “Yes!” said the Gipsy; “so that is the way the Gorgios leave their sign! We leave grass on the road.”
The horse leaves his track on the road, and the snake makes his trail in the dust.
When I was beshin’ alay adrée the wesh tāle the bori rukkas, mandy putched a tikno chillico to latch mandy a bitti moro, but it jālled avree an’ I never dicked it kekoomi. Adöi I putched a boro chillico to latch mandy a curro o’ tatti panni, but it jālled avree paul’ the waver. Mandy never putchered the rukk parl my sherro for kek, but when the bàvol welled it wussered a lay to mandy a hundred ripe kóri.
When I was sitting down in the forest under the great trees, I asked a little bird to bring (find) me a little bread, but it went away and I never saw it again. Then I asked a great bird to bring me a cup of brandy, but it flew away after the other. I never asked the tree over my head for anything, but when the wind came it threw down to me a hundred ripe nuts.
Yeckorus a tāno mush was kellin’ kushto pré the boshomengro, an’ a kushti dickin rāni pookered him, “Tute’s killaben is as sāno as best-tood.” And he rākkered ajaw, “Tute’s mui’s gudlo sār pishom, an’ I’d cāmmoben to puraben mi tood for tute’s pishom.”
Kushto pāsh kushto kairs ferridearer.
Once a young man was playing well upon the violin, and a beautiful lady told him, “Your playing is as soft as cream.” And he answered, “Your mouth (i.e., lips or words) is sweet as honey, and I would like to exchange my cream for your honey.”
Good with good makes better.
Yeckorus some plochto Rommany chals an’ juvas were kellin’ the pāsh-divvus by dood tall’ a boro kér, and yeck penned the waver, “I’d be cāmmoben if dovo kér was mandy’s.” And the rye o’ the kér, kún sus dickin’ the kellaben, rākkered, “When tute kells a hev muscro the bar you’re hatchin’ apré, mandy’ll del tute the ker.” Adöi the Rom tarried the bar apré, an’ dicked it was hollow tāle, and sār a curro ’pré the waver rikk. So he lelled dui sastern chokkas and kelled sār the rātti ’pré the bar, kairin’ such a gúdlo you could shoon him a mee avree; an’ adrée the sala he had kaired a hev adrée the bar as boro as lesters sherro. So the barvelo rye del him the fino ker, and sār the mushis got mātto, hallauter kettenus.
Many a cheirus I’ve shooned my puri dye pen that a bar with a hev adrée it kairs kāmmoben.
Once some jolly Gipsy men and girls were dancing in the evening by moonlight before a great house, and one said to the other, “I’d be glad if that house was mine.” And the gentleman of the house, who was looking at the dancing, said, “When you dance a hole through (in the centre of) the stone you are standing on, I’ll give you the house.” Then the Gipsy pulled the stone up, and saw it was hollow underneath, and like a cup on the other side. So he took two iron shoes and danced all night on the stone, making such a noise you could hear him a mile off; and in the morning he had made a hole in the stone as large as his head. So the rich gentleman gave him the fine house, and all the people got drunk, all together.
Many a time I’ve heard my old mother say that a stone with a hole in it brings luck.
Yeckorus a boro rye wouldn’t mukk a choro, pauvero, chovveny Rommany chal hatch odöi ’pré his farm. So the Rommany chal jālled on a puv apré the waver rikk o’ the drum, anerjal the ryas beshaben. And dovo rātti the ryas ker pelled alay; kek kāsh of it hatched apré, only the foki that loddered adöi hullered their kokeros avree mā their miraben. And the ryas tikno chavo would a-mullered if a Rommany juva had not lelled it avree their pauveri bitti tan.
An’ dovo’s sār tacho like my dad, an’ to the divvus kennā they pens that pūv the Rommany Pūv.
Once a great gentleman would not let a poor, poor, poor Gipsy stay on his farm. So the Gipsy went to a field on the other side of the way, opposite the gentleman’s residence. And that night the gentleman’s house fell down; not a stick of it remained standing, only the people who lodged there carried themselves out (i.e., escaped) with their lives. And the gentleman’s little babe would have died if a Gipsy woman had not taken it into their poor little tent.
And that’s all true as my father, and to this day they call that field the Gipsy Field.
Yeck divvus a prastramengro prastered pauli a Rommany chal, an’ the chal jālled adrée the panni, that was pordo o’ boro bittis o’ floatin’ shill, and there he hatched pāll his men with only his sherro avree. “Hav avree,” shelled a rye that was wafro in his see for the pooro mush, “an’ we’ll mukk you jāl!” “Kek,” penned the Rom; “I shan’t jāl.” “Well avree,” penned the rye ajaw, “an’ I’ll del tute pange bar!” “Kek,” rakkered the Rom. “Jāl avree,” shokkered the rye, “an’ I’ll del tute pange bar an’ a nevvi chukko!” “Will you del mandy a walin o’ tatto panni too?” putched the Rommany chal. “Āvail, ávail,” penned the rye; “but for Duveleste hav’ avree the panni!” “Kushto,” penned the Rommany chal, “for cāmmoben to tute, rya, I’ll jāl avree!” {235}
Once a policeman chased a Gipsy, and the Gipsy ran into the river, that was full of great pieces of floating ice, and there he stood up to his neck with only his head out. “Come out,” cried a gentleman that pitied the poor man, “and we’ll let you go!” “No,” said the Gipsy; “I won’t move.” “Come out,” said the gentleman again, “and I’ll give you five pounds!” “No,” said the Gipsy. “Come out,” cried the gentleman, “and I’ll give you five pounds and a new coat!” “Will you give me a glass of brandy too?” asked the Gipsy. “Yes, yes,” said the gentleman; “but for God’s sake come out of the water!” “Well,” exclaimed the Gipsy, “to oblige you, sir, I’ll come out!”
“Savo’s tute’s rye?” putched a ryas mush of a Rommany chal. “I’ve dui ryas,” pooked the Rommany chal: “Duvel’s the yeck an’ beng’s the waver. Mandy kairs booti for the beng till I’ve lelled my yeckora habben, an’ pallers mi Duvel pauli ajaw.”
“Who is your master?” asked a gentleman’s servant of a Gipsy. “I’ve two masters,” said the Gipsy: “God is the one, and the devil is the other. I work for the devil till I have got my dinner (one-o’clock food), and after that follow the Lord.”
A bitti chavo jalled adrée the boro gav pāsh his dàdas, an’ they hatched taller the hev of a ruppenomengro’s buddika sār pordo o’ kushti-dickin covvas. “O dàdas,” shelled the tikno chavo, “what a boro choroméngro dovo mush must be to a’ lelled so boot adusta rooys an’ horas!”
A tácho cóvva often dicks sār a hokkeny (huckeny) cóvva; an dovo’s sim of a tácho mush, but a juva often dicks tácho when she isn’t.
A little boy went to the great village (i.e., London) with his father, and they stopped before the window of a silversmith’s shop all full of pretty things. “O father,” cried the small boy, “what a great thief that man must be to have got so many spoons and watches!”
A true thing often looks like a false one; and the same is true (and that’s same) of a true man, but a girl often looks right when she is not.
Mandy sūtto’d I was pirraben lang o’ tute, an’ I dicked mandy’s pen odöi ’pré the choomber. Then I was pirryin’ ajaw parl the puvius, an’ I welled to the panni paul’ the Beng’s Choomber, an’ adöi I dicked some rānis, saw nāngo barrin’ a pauno plāchta ’pré lengis sherros, adree the panni pāsh their bukkos. An’ I pookered lengis, “Mi-rānis, I putch tute’s cāmmoben; I didn’t jin tute sus acai.” But yeck pré the wavers penned mandy boot kushti cāmmoben, “Chichi, mor dukker your-kokero; we just welled alay acai from the kér to lel a bitti bath.” An’ she savvy’d sā kushto, but they all jalled avree glan mandy sār the bavol, an’ tute was hatchin’ pāsh a maudy sār the cheirus.
So it pens, “when you dick rānis sār dovo, you’ll muller kushto.” Well, if it’s to be akovo, I kaum it’ll be a booti cheirus a-wellin.’ Tácho!
I dreamed I was walking with you, and I saw my sister (a fortune-teller) there upon the hill. Then I (found myself) walking again over the field, and I came to the water near the Devil’s Dyke, and there I saw some ladies, quite naked excepting a white cloth on their heads, in the water to the waists. And I said to them, “Ladies, I beg your pardon; I did not know you were here.” But one among the rest said to me very kindly, “No matter, don’t trouble yourself; we just came down here from the house to take a little bath.” And she smiled sweetly, but they all vanished before me like the cloud (wind), and you were standing by me all the time.
So it means, “when you see ladies like that, you will die happily.” Well, if it’s to be that, I hope it will be a long time coming. Yes, indeed.
Yeckorus, boot hundred beshes the divvus acai, a juva was wellin’ to chore a yora. “Mukk mandy hatch,” penned the yora, “an’ I’ll sikker tute ki tute can lel a tikno pappni.” So the juva lelled the tikno pappni, and it pookered lāki, “Mukk mandy jāl an’ I’ll sikker tute ki tute can chore a bori kāni.” Then she chored the bori kāni, an’ it shelled avree, “Mukk mandy jāl an’ I’ll sikker tute ki you can loure a rāni-chillico.” And when she lelled the rāni-chillico, it penned, “Mukk mandy jāl an’ I’ll sikker tute odöi ki tute can lel a guruvni’s tikno.” So she lelled the guruvni’s tikno, an’ it shokkered and ruvved, an’ rākkered, “Mukk mandy jāl an’ I’ll sikker tute where to lel a fino grai.” An’ when she loured the grai, it penned lāki, “Mukk mandy jāl an’ I’ll rikker tute to a kushto-dick barvelo rye who kaums a pirreny.” So she lelled the kushto tauno rye, an’ she jivved with lester kushto yeck cooricus; but pāsh dovo he pookered her to jāl avree, he didn’t kaum her kekoomi. “Sā a wafro mush is tute,” ruvved the rakli, “to bitcher mandy avree! For tute’s cāmmoben I delled avree a yora, a tikno pappni, a boro kāni, a rāni-chillico, a guruvni’s tikno, an’ a fino grai.” “Is dovo tácho?” putched the raklo. “’Pré my mullo dàdas!” sovahalled the rākli,” I del ’em sār apré for tute, yeck paul the waver, an’ kennā tu bitchers mandy avree!” “So ’p mi-Duvel!” penned the rye, “if tute nashered sār booti covvas for mandy, I’ll rummer tute.” So they were rummobend.
Āvali, there’s huckeny (hokkeny) tàchobens and tacho hùckabens. You can sovahall pré the lil adovo.
Once, many hundred years ago (to-day now), a girl was going to steal an egg. “Let me be,” said the egg, “and I will show you where you can get a duck.” So the girl got the duck, and it said (told) to her, “Let me go and I will show you where you can get a goose” (large hen). Then she stole the goose, and it cried out, “Let me go and I’ll show you where you can steal a turkey” (lady-bird). And when she took the turkey, it said, “Let me go and I’ll show you where you can get a calf.” So she got the calf, and it bawled and wept, and cried, “Let me go and I’ll show you where to get a fine horse.” And when she stole the horse, it said to her, “Let me go and I’ll carry you to a handsome, rich gentleman who wants a sweetheart.” So she got the nice young gentleman, and lived with him pleasantly one week; but then he told her to go away, he did not want her any more. “What a bad man you are,” wept the girl, “to send me away! For your sake I gave away an egg, a duck, a goose, a turkey, a calf, and a fine horse.” “Is that true?” asked the youth. “By my dead father!” swore the girl, “I gave them all up for you, one after the other, and now you send me away!” “So help me God!” said the gentleman, “if you lost so many things for me, I’ll marry you.” So they were married.
Yes, there are false truths and true lies. You may kiss the book on that.