"'How shall I know him, bebee?' says the child. 'Young and grey, tall, and speaks Romanly.' Runs to me the child, and says, 'I've found him, bebee.' 'Where, child?' says I. 'Come with me, bebee,' says the child. 'That's he,' says I, as I looked at my gentleman through the hedge." "Ha, ha! bebee, and here he lies, poisoned like a hog." "You have taken drows, sir," said Mrs. Herne; "do you hear, sir? drows; tip him a stave, child, of the song of poison." And thereupon the girl clapped her hands, and sang-- "The Rommany churl And the Rommany girl To-morrow shall hie To poison the sty And bewitch on the mead The farmer's steed." "Do you hear that, sir?" said Mrs. Herne; "the child has tipped you a stave of the song of poison: that is, she has sung it Christianly, though perhaps you would like to hear it Romanly; you were always fond of what was Roman. Tip it him Romanly, child." "He has heard it Romanly already, bebee; 'twas by that I found him out, as I told you." "Halloo, sir, are you sleeping? you have taken drows; the gentleman makes no answer. God give me patience!" "And what if he doesn't, bebee; isn't he poisoned like a hog? Gentleman, indeed! why call him gentleman? if he ever was one he's broke, and is now a tinker, a worker of blue metal." "That's his way, child,--to-day a tinker, to-morrow something else; and as for being drabbed, {174a} I don't know what to say about it." "Not drabbed! what do you mean, bebee? but look there, bebee; ha, ha! look at the gentleman's motions." "He is sick, child, sure enough. Ho, ho! sir, you have taken drows; what, another throe! writhe, sir, writhe, the hog died by the drow of Gypsies; I saw him stretched at evening. That's yourself, sir. There is no hope, sir, no help, you have taken drow; shall I tell you your fortune, sir, your dukkerin? God bless you, pretty gentleman, much trouble will you have to suffer, and much water to cross; but never mind, pretty gentleman, you shall be fortunate at the end, and those who hate shall take off their hats to you." "Hey, bebee!" cried the girl; "what is this? what do you mean? you have blessed the Gorgio!" "Blessed him! no, sure; what did I say? Oh, I remember, I'm mad; well, I can't help it, I said what the dukkerin dook {174b} told me; woe's me, he'll get up yet." "Nonsense, bebee! Look at his motions, he's drabbed, spite of dukkerin." "Don't say so, child; he's sick, 'tis true, but don't laugh at dukkerin, only folks do that that know no better. I, for one, will never laugh at the dukkerin dook. Sick again; I wish he was gone." "He'll soon be gone, bebee; let's leave him. He's as good as gone; look there, he's dead." "No, he's not, he'll get up--I feel it; can't we hasten him?" "Hasten him! yes, to be sure; set the dog upon him. Here, juggal, look in there, my dog." The dog made its appearance at the door of the tent, and began to bark and tear up the ground.