they threw his bedding, carpets, curtains, blankets, and everything which would burn. Finally, they dashed his mirrors, china, and crockery to pieces, hacked his metal pots, dishes, and what not to bits, and flung the whole on the blazing pile. {219} Such was the life, such the death, and such were the funeral obsequies of Ryley Bosvil, a Gipsy who will be long remembered amongst the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, grand airs, and last not least, for having been the composer of various stanzas in the Gipsy tongue, which have plenty of force if nothing else to recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, runs as follows:— “Beneath the bright sun there is none, There is none I love like my Yocky Shuri; With the greatest delight in blood I would fight To the knees for my Yocky Shuri.” How much better and happier it would have been for this poor, hardened, ignorant, old Gipsy, if, instead of indulging in such rubbish as he did in the last hours of an idle and wasted life, he could, after a life spent in doing good to the Gipsies and others over whom he had influence, as the shades of the evening of life gathered round him, sung, from the bottom of his heart—fetching tears to his eyes as it did mine a Sunday or two ago—the following verses to the tune of “Belmont:”— “When in the vale of lengthened years My feeble feet shall tread, And I survey the various scenes Through which I have been led, “How many mercies will my life Before my view unfold! What countless dangers will be past! What tales of sorrow told! “This scene will all my labours end, This road conduct on high; With comfort I’ll review the past, And triumph though I die.”