“Rise, arise, my Velvet Georgie,[67] Waken, set you to the bellows; Forge and hammer nails of iron.” Said the husband, “I am coming; Take the broom the dust out-sweeping.” And then Velvet Georgie rises, Straightway on his feet is standing. At the bellows quick down-sitting, Nails of iron he is forging. Then into the market going, Roast-meat fresh and juicy bought he, Roasted meat and white bread also. And he walked into the tavern, And he sat there eating, drinking, Never thinking of his consort, Nothing caring for her wishes— No new dress for her is buying. She to Voda ran complaining. Voda thus his love did answer, “To the merchant quickly hie thee, Ask him what a dress will cost thee.” To the town she ran off smiling, Chose a dress there for her wearing. Quoth the merchant, “Not on credit; Bring me cash before I sell it.” Voda paid him down the money; Paid and went— But Velvet Georgie, From the tavern soon returning, Found his wife, and in his anger Threw her in the glowing furnace, Whence she, loud with cries of anguish, Called upon her absent lover: “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, See how both my feet are burning!” “Let them burn, O faithless lassie, Many pair of boots hast cost me.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, See now how my waist is burning!” “Let it burn, thou brazen hussy, Worn out hast thou many dresses.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, How my bosom burns and scorches!” “Let it burn, O shameless harlot, Many hands have oft caressed it.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, Both my hands are burning sorely!” “Let them burn, O wanton lassie, Many pair of gloves they cost me.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, Now my neck is burning also!” “Let it burn, thou brazen hussy, Many beads hast worn around it.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, Now my lips the fire is catching!” “Let them burn, O shameless harlot, Many kisses hast thou given.” “Voda, Voda, O Black Voda, Now my head itself is burning!” “Let it burn, thou worthless baggage, Let the fire destroy thee wholly.” GYPSY RHYMES. I. The donkey is a lazy brute, That fact there is no hiding; Yet those, methinks, the brute doth suit Who slow are fond of riding. II. Autumn glads the peasant’s breast, Sends the hunter on the quest; Pines the gypsy’s heart alone For the sunshine that is gone! III. Since holds the tomb my mother dear, My life is cheerless, bleak, and drear; No sweetheart have on earth’s wide face, So is the grave my better place. IV. I my father never knew, Friend to me was never true, Dead the mother that I loved, Faithless has my sweetheart proved, Still alone with me you fare, Faithful fiddle, everywhere! V.