The Disowned | Page 6

told their feats in
beggary; others, their achievements in theft; not a viand they had fed on
but had its appropriate legend; even the old rabbit, which had been as
tough as old rabbit can well be, had not been honestly taken from his
burrow; no less a person than Mim himself had purloined it from a
widow's footman who was carrying it to an old maid from her nephew
the Squire.
"Silence," cried the host, who 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