“Shul shul gang along with me, Gang along me, I’ll gang along with you, I’ll buy 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.”