 | English-gipsy songs |  |
THE WITCH.
His wife was so weak she could scarce arouse;
But when she saw we were Rommany,
She spoke to us very civilly,
And said, with many a gasp and twitch:
“I'm dying—and all of a wicked witch.
The evil thing is dancing, I vow!
My God! Oh, help me!”—and peeping in
At the open door, with a wicked grin,
Came a great grey toad, with a hop and a hitch;
“See there!” cried the woman, “see—there's my witch!
The devilish creature is always near;
If I throw it away, the first thing I see,
It is jumping again and staring at me,
All night I hear it hiss by the ditch,
And all night long I dream of the witch.”
And told her at last how the thing must be:
“If you have shears, just bring them here,
And with them a cup of salt, my dear,
And as sure as we're poor, and you are rich,
The Gipsies will soon take care of the witch!”
And held the toad—and it couldn't get free—
The charm was so strong—but it gave a cry—
For it knew that its hour had come to die;
In the fire with the shears we gave it a pitch,
And she threw the salt on the burning witch.
Ale and bacon—plenty to eat,
And a ten-shilling piece as we went away—
Since people who work must get their pay;
And it's good for all, be they poor or rich,
If Gipsies come when they're plagued with a witch.
One fine day in Epping Forest I met a very jolly young Gipsy woman, and held with her a conversation which was, however, hardly to be called cheerful, since it turned principally on toads and snakes, with their relations to witchcraft. In illustration of their evil-nature, she told me the story which I have repeated very accurately in the foregoing
Not wishing to be outdone, I signified my cordial assent, and promptly narrated a story which I had found originally in a strange and striking little ballad by a well-known American poet, R. H. Stoddard. There was once an old Gipsy woman, a witch. One day a gentleman going along the road accidentally trod on a great toad and killed it. Hearing a scream at that instant some way off in the woods, and after that a terrible outcry, he followed up the sounds, and found that they came from a Gipsy camp, and were lamentations over the old witch's child, who had just died very suddenly. On looking at the little corpse, he was horrified to find that it presented every appearance of having been trampled to death.
The simple credulity and awe expressed in the brown Gipsy face on hearing this little tale were as amusing as the puzzled look which succeeded them. She did not doubt the incident,—not in the least,—but inquired “how could it be?” —not being able to fathom the principle by which a soul could be in two places at once. I regret that I cannot report the discussion which probably ensued that night, around some fire, over this story, and the explanations given of it by the wiser and older fortune-tellers. It is not impossible that the next Rommany Rye or Gipsy-speaking gentleman who goes to Epping may, if he touch on the subject with due care,
The word chóvihān in this poem should be correctly translated wizard, and not witch; chovihānī being the feminine.
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