The Disowned | Page 6

loved talking as well as the rest, and who for the last ten minutes had been vainly endeavouring to obtain attention. "Silence! my maunders, it's late, and we shall have the queer cuffins [magistrates] upon us if we keep it up much longer. What, ho, Mim, are you still gabbling at the foot of the table when your betters are talking? As sure as my name's King Cole, I'll choke you with your own rabbit skin, if you don't hush your prating cheat,-- nay, never look so abashed: if you will make a noise, come forward, and sing us a gypsy song. You see, my young sir," turning to his guest, "that we are not without our pretensions to the fine arts."
At this order, Mim started forth, and taking his station at the right hand of the soi-disant King Cole, began the following song, the chorus of which was chanted in full diapason by the whole group, with the additional force of emphasis that knives, feet, and fists could bestow:--
THE GYPSY'S SONG.
The king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, And the cit to his bilking board; But we are not bound to an acre of ground, For our home is the houseless sward. We sow not, nor toil; yet we glean from the soil As much as its reapers do; And wherever we rove, we feed on the cove Who gibes at the mumping crew. CHORUS.--So the king to his hall, etc.
We care not a straw for the limbs of the law, Nor a fig for the cuffin queer; While Hodge and his neighbour shall lavish and labour, Our tent is as sure of its cheer. CHORUS.--So the king to his hall, etc.
The worst have an awe of the harman's [constable] claw, And the best will avoid the trap; [bailiff] But our wealth is as free of the bailiff's see As our necks of the twisting crap. [gallows] CHORUS.--So the king to his hall, etc.
They say it is sweet to win the meat For the which one has sorely wrought; But I never could find that we lacked the mind For the food that has cost us nought! CHRUS.--So the king to his hall, etc.
And when we have ceased from our fearless feast Why, our jigger [door] will need no bars; Our sentry shall be on the owlet's tree, And our lamps the glorious stars.
CHORUS. So the king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, And the cit to his bilking board; But we are not bound to an acre of ground, For our home is the houseless sward.
Rude as was this lawless stave, the spirit with which it was sung atoned to the young stranger for its obscurity and quaintness; as for his host, that curious personage took a lusty and prominent part in the chorus; nor did the old woods refuse their share of the burden, but sent back a merry echo to the chief's deep voice and the harsher notes of his jovial brethren.
When the glee had ceased, King Cole rose, the whole band followed his example, the cloth was cleared in a trice, the barrel--oh! what a falling off was there!--was rolled into a corner of the tent, and the crew to whom the awning belonged began to settle themselves to rest; while those who owned the other encampment marched forth, with King Cole at their head. Leaning with no light weight upon his guest's arm, the lover of ancient minstrelsy poured into the youth's ear a strain of eulogy, rather eloquent than coherent, upon the scene they had just witnessed.
"What," cried his majesty in an enthusiastic tone, "what can be so truly regal as our state? Can any man control us? Are we not above all laws? Are we not the most despotic of kings? Nay, more than the kings of earth, are we not the kings of Fairyland itself? Do we not realize the golden dreams of the old rhymers, luxurious dogs that they were? Who would not cry out,--
'Blest silent groves! Oh, may ye be Forever Mirth's best nursery! May pure Contents Forever pitch their tents Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these mountains.'"
Uttering this notable extract from the thrice-honoured Sir Henry Wotton, King Cole turned abruptly from the common, entered the wood which skirted it, and, only attended by his guest and his minister Mim, came suddenly, by an unexpected and picturesque opening in the trees, upon one of those itinerant vehicles termed caravans, he ascended the few steps which led to the entrance, opened the door, and was instantly in the arms of a pretty and young woman. On seeing our hero (for such we fear the youth is likely to become), she drew back with a blush not often found upon regal cheeks.
"Pooh," said