you a petticoat and dye it in the blue,
Sweet William shall kiss you in the rue.
Shula gang shaugh gig a magala
To my Uskadina slawn slawn."

"We were supremely happy," says Mr. Petalengro, "in our wandering
existence. We contrasted in our semi-consciousness of mind our absence
from a thousand anxious cares which crowd upon the social position of
those who take part in an overwrought state of extreme civilisation. How
long we should have continued our half-dormant reflections which might
have added a few more notes upon the philosophy of life, we knew not, but
we were roused by the rumble of a stolk-jaerre along the road."

"For the dance no music can be better than that of a Gipsy band; there is
life and animation in it which carries you away. If you have danced to
it yourself, especially in a _czardas,_ {176} then to hear the stirring
tones without involuntarily springing up is, I assert, an absolute
impossibility." Poor, deluded mortals, I am afraid they will find--

"Nothing but leaves!
Sad memory weaves
No veil to hide the past;
And as we trace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day,
Sadly we find at last,
Nothing but leaves!"

The converse of all this artificial and misleading Gipsy life is to be
seen in hard fate and fact at our own doors--"Look on this picture and
then on that."

"There is a land, a sunny land,
Whose skies are ever bright;
Where evening shadows never fall:
The Saviour is its light."

"There's a land that is fairer than day,
And by faith we can see it afar;
For the Father waits over the way
To prepare us a dwelling-place there
In the sweet by-and-bye."

George Borrow, during his labours among the Gipsies of Spain forty years
ago, did not find much occasion for rollicking fun, merriment, and
boisterous laughter; his path was not one of roses, over mossy banks,
among the honeysuckles and daisies, by the side of running rivulets
warbling over the smooth pebbles; sitting among the primroses, listening
to the enchanting voices of the thousand forest and valley songsters;
gazing at the various and beautiful kinds of foliage on the hill-sides as
the thrilling strains of music pealed forth from the sweet voice of
Esmeralda and her tambourine. No, no, no! George Borrow had to face the
hard lot of all those who start on the path of usefulness, honour, and
heaven. Hard