A FORTNIGHT before Christmas Gypsies were every-
where:
Vans were drawn up on wastes, women trailed to
the fair.
"My gentleman," said one, "You've got a lucky
face."
"And you've a luckier," I thought, "if such a grace
And impudence in rags are lucky." "Give a penny
For the poor baby's sake." "Indeed I have not any
Unless you can give change for a sovereign, my
dear."
"Then just half a pipeful of tobacco can you
spare?"
I gave it. With that much victory she laughed
content.
I should have given more, but off and away she
went
With her baby and her pink sham flowers to rejoin
The rest before I could translate to its proper coin
Gratitude for her grace. And I paid nothing then,
As I pay nothing now with the dipping of my pen
For her brother's music when he drummed the
tambourine
And stamped his feet, which made the workmen
passing grin,
While his mouth-organ changed to a rascally
Bacchanal dance
"Over the hills and far away." This and his glance
Outlasted all the fair, farmer and auctioneer,
Cheap-jack, balloon-man, drover with crooked
stick, and steer,
Pig, turkey, goose, and duck, Christmas Corpses
to be.
Not even the kneeling ox had eyes like the Romany.
That night he peopled for me the hollow wooded
land,
More dark and wild than stormiest heavens, that I
searched and scanned
Like a ghost new-arrived. The gradations of the
dark
Were like an underworld of death, but for the spark
In the Gypsy boy's black eyes as he played and
stamped his tune,
"Over the hills and far away," and a crescent moon.