CHAPTER XXXVII. GYPSY POETRY.

Very little genuine Tzigane poetry has penetrated to the outer world, and many songs erroneously attributed to the gypsies (by Borrow among others) are proved to be adaptations of Spanish or Italian canzonets picked up in the course of their wanderings, while of those few which are undoubtedly their own productions hardly any exceed the length of six or eight lines.

“We sing only when we are drunk,” was the answer given by an old gypsy to a collector of folk-songs, which pithy and concise definition of gypsy literature would seem to be a tolerably correct one—though, on the other hand, it might be urged with some show of reason that the gypsy, being often drunk, we might naturally expect his poetical effusions to be proportionately numerous.

And perhaps they are in fact more numerous than is generally supposed, only that for lack of a recording pen to take note of them as they arise their momentary inspirations pass by unheeded, leaving no more mark behind than does the song of some wild forest-bird when it has ceased to wake the woodland echoes. The conditions of the gypsy’s life render all but impossible the task of a scribe, who has little chance of picking up anything of interest unless prepared for the time being to become almost a gypsy himself.

Nor have there been wanting ardent folk-lorists (if I may coin a word) who have gone this length; so, for instance, Dr. Heinrich von Wlislocki, who, in the summer of 1883, spent several months as member of a wandering troop of tent gypsies in Transylvania and Southern Hungary, and has lately published a volume of gypsy fairy tales, the fruit of his laborious expedition. Yet on the whole the harvest is a meagre one, if we take account of the time and trouble spent on its realization; and even this energetic collector has declared that he would hardly have the courage a second time to face the deceptions and fatigues of such an undertaking.

To his pen it is that we owe the first poem contained in this chapter; the second one, entitled, “The Black Voda,” interesting as being an almost solitary instance of a consecutive gypsy ballad, was communicated{274} to me by the courtesy of Professor Hugo von Meltzl, of Klausenburg, another Transylvanian authority in the matter of folk-lore, who, in his “Acta Comparationis Literarum Universum,” has given many interesting details bearing on these subjects.

The other sixteen specimens of the Tzigane muse are so simple as to call for no explanation, though in one or two cases not wholly devoid of poetical merit.

GYPSY BALLAD.

(From a German translation by Dr. H. von Wlislocki.)
O’er the meadow, o’er the wold,
Tracks a boy the wand’rer old,
Who a scarf wears by his side—
Follows him with stealthy stride.
Bleeding fells the wand’rer prone
In the forest dark and lone;
And the boy has ta’en the life
Of the man with murd’rous knife.
Throws the corse all stained with blood
In the river’s rushing flood;
But, alas! not guessing he
Who this ancient wand’rer be.
Lightly running home then went,
Till he reached his mother’s tent,
Held the scarf before her eyes;
She, long silent with surprise,
Cried at last with passion wild,
“Cursed be thou, my only child!
May the slayer of his sire
Branded be by Heaven’s ire;
Hast thy father killed to-day,
And his scarf hast stolen away!”

THE BLACK VODA.[66]
“Rise, arise, my Velvet Georgie,[67]
Waken, set you to the bellows;
Forge and hammer nails of iron.”
{275}
Said the husband, “I am coming;
Take the broom the dust out-sweeping.”
And then Velvet Georgie rises,
Straightway on his feet is standing.
At the bellows quick down-sitting,
Nails of iron he is forging.
Then into the market going,
Roast-meat fresh and juicy bought he,
Roasted meat and white bread also.
And he walked into the tavern,
And he sat there eating, drinking,
Never thinking of his consort,
Nothing caring for her wishes—
No new dress for her is buying.
She to Voda ran complaining.
Voda thus his love did answer,
“To the merchant quickly hie thee,
Ask him what a dress will cost thee.”
To the town she ran off smiling,
Chose a dress there for her wearing.
Quoth the merchant, “Not on credit;
Bring me cash before I sell it.”
Voda paid him down the money;
Paid and went— But Velvet Georgie,
From the tavern soon returning,
Found his wife, and in his anger
Threw her in the glowing furnace,
Whence she, loud with cries of anguish,
Called upon her absent lover:
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
See how both my feet are burning!”
“Let them burn, O faithless lassie,
Many pair of boots hast cost me.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
See now how my waist is burning!”
“Let it burn, thou brazen hussy,
Worn out hast thou many dresses.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
How my bosom burns and scorches!”
“Let it burn, O shameless harlot,
Many hands have oft caressed it.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
Both my hands are burning sorely!”
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“Let them burn, O wanton lassie,
Many pair of gloves they cost me.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
Now my neck is burning also!”
“Let it burn, thou brazen hussy,
Many beads hast worn around it.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
Now my lips the fire is catching!”
“Let them burn, O shameless harlot,
Many kisses hast thou given.”
“Voda, Voda, O Black Voda,
Now my head itself is burning!”
“Let it burn, thou worthless baggage,
Let the fire destroy thee wholly.”

GYPSY RHYMES.

I.
The donkey is a lazy brute,
That fact there is no hiding;
Yet those, methinks, the brute doth suit
Who slow are fond of riding.

II.
Autumn glads the peasant’s breast,
Sends the hunter on the quest;
Pines the gypsy’s heart alone
For the sunshine that is gone!

III.
Since holds the tomb my mother dear,
My life is cheerless, bleak, and drear;
No sweetheart have on earth’s wide face,
So is the grave my better place.

IV.
I my father never knew,
Friend to me was never true,
Dead the mother that I loved,
Faithless has my sweetheart proved,
Still alone with me you fare,
Faithful fiddle, everywhere!

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V.
Of coin my purse is bare,
My heart is full of care;
Come here, my fiddle, ’tis for thee
To banish care and poverty.

VI.
Heaven grant the boon, I pray;
All I ask is but a gown—
But a gown with buttons gay,
Buttons jingling joyously,
Jingling to be heard in town!

VII.
God of vengeance! give to me
That of wives the best;
Give me boot and give me spur,
Give me scarlet vest.
Then though spite their visage darken
In the market-place,
Fain must look and needs must hearken
All my foemen’s race.

VIII.
Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there,
Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair.
The burn it still babbles, will babble amain,
Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again!
The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing,
Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing.

IX.
Down there in the meadow they’re mowing,
And looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing;
Such looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing,
That mad is this heart of mine going!

X.
Yonder strapping lass did bake,
Put no salt into the cake;
Lo! it sticks upon the pan—
Eat it, child, as best you can.

XI.
“Plainly, maiden, lov’st thou me?
Which thy true-love—I or he?”
“Thou, O thou, when thou art nigh;
But for love of him I die!”

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XII.
Boots and shoes were never mine,
Seldom have I tasted wine;
But I once possessed a wife,
And she poisoned all my life!

XIII.
Hammer the iron! Deal thy blows
Heavy and hard, as a gypsy knows.
Poor, yet ever—how poor!—remain;
Heart full of bitterness, full of pain.
Ah, how well would it be if there
I could but in yon furnace glare,
Till soft it grew, my love’s heart ply;
No man were then so rich as I.

XIV.
Underneath the greenwood-tree
Days I’ve waited three times three;
I would on my love set eyes,
Here I know her path-way lies.
Could I hope a kiss to earn,
Into weeks the days might turn;
Could I hope to win my dear,
Then each day might be a year!

XV.
Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy,
What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the mere?
Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy?
Or whispers a stranger soft words in her ear?
On second thoughts, better, moon, darling, be mute,
The odious trade of a telltale eschewing;
Or perhaps you might tell her—and that would not suit—
What yesterday evening myself I was doing!

XVI.
The bee ever makes for the flower,
And lads after lassies will go;
Was it otherwise, grandam so sour,
In the days of thy youth long ago?
For Nature her mould never varies,
To that can no wisdom say nay;
What the ancestor felt, that the heir is,
As inheritor, feeling to-day.