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Patrick, unwilling to be idle, As he held Phillis by the bridle,
With half a score black eyes around him,
Darting their glances to confound him,
Thought, while his Master chose to trace The hist'ry of the Gipsy race,
It would be ungallant, nay wrong,
Thus to stand still and hold his tongue,
Which, from experience, as he knew, He was not very apt to do.
Besides here was a fit occasion To gratify his inclination.
Indeed, the Fair-ones, though the claim
Is more than doubtful to the name;
For Gipsy art, as is well known, Doth dye their skins in deepest brown:
As a black swan, it would be rare To see the face of Gipsy fair.
Well then, these Brown-ones did not wait
For him to open the debate;
But, having gently strok'd his cheek,
Which was, I fear, nor smooth nor sleek,
And slyly chuck'd his bearded chin,
Which brought on a good-humour'd grin,
They jabber'd forth that they were willing
To tell his fate for half a shilling.
Pat smil'd consent, his sixpence paid,
And thus the witch commenc'd her trade.