“Change!” cried the youth, with an earnestness which, if affected, was an exquisite counterfeit, “by Heaven, I would change with you myself.” “Bravo, my fine cove!” cried the host, and all the gang echoed their sympathy with his applause. The youth continued: “Meat, and that plentiful; ale, and that strong; women, and those pretty ones: what can man desire more?” “Ay,” cried the host, “and all for nothing,--no, not even a tax; who else in this kingdom can say that? Come, Mim, push round the ale.” And the ale was pushed round, and if coarse the merriment, loud at least was the laugh that rang ever and anon from the old tent; and though, at moments, something in the guest’s eye and lip might have seemed, to a very shrewd observer, a little wandering and absent, yet, upon the whole, he was almost as much at ease as the rest, and if he was not quite as talkative he was to the full as noisy. By degrees, as the hour grew later and the barrel less heavy, the conversation changed into one universal clatter. Some told their feats in beggary; others, their achievements in theft; not a viand they had fed on but had its appropriate legend; even the old rabbit, which had been as tough as old rabbit can well be, had not been honestly taken from his burrow; no less a person than Mim himself had purloined it from a widow’s footman who was carrying it to an old maid from her nephew the Squire. “Silence,” cried the host, who loved talking as well as the rest, and who for the last ten minutes had been vainly endeavouring to obtain attention. “Silence! my maunders, it’s late, and we shall have the queer cuffins [magistrates] upon us if we keep it up much longer. What, ho, Mim, are you still gabbling at the foot of the table when your betters are talking? As sure as my name’s King Cole, I’ll choke you with your own rabbit skin, if you don’t hush your prating cheat,--nay, never look so abashed: if you will make a noise, come forward, and sing us a gypsy song. You see, my young sir,” turning to his guest, “that we are not without our pretensions to the fine arts.” At this order, Mim started forth, and taking his station at the right hand of the soi-disant King Cole, began the following song, the chorus of which was chanted in full diapason by the whole group, with the additional force of emphasis that knives, feet, and fists could bestow:-- THE GYPSY’S SONG. The king to his hall, and the steed to his stall, And the cit to his bilking board; But we are not bound to an acre of ground, For our home is the houseless sward. We sow not, nor toil; yet we glean from the soil As much as its reapers do; And wherever we rove, we feed on the cove Who gibes at the mumping crew. CHORUS.--So the king to his hall, etc. We care not a straw for the limbs of the law, Nor a fig for the cuffin queer; While Hodge and his neighbour shall lavish and labour, Our tent is as sure of its cheer. CHORUS.--So the king to his hall, etc.