In the gray of the dawn, ere the milkmaid trips by, To bring home the milk from the bright-coated kye, Some earlier hand may have taken the pain To render her milking all labour in vain.

In the gray of the dawn, &c.

In the gray of the dawn, if you'll meet me down by, My own pretty maid with the dark gleaming eye, We'll wander away far o'er mountain and plain, And leave the old fools to look for us in vain.

In the gray of the dawn, &c.

In the gray of the dawn, if you'll not come to me, My own pretty maid, by the green hawthorn tree, You may stumble by chance o'er the corpse of your love, As you trip with some other along the dim grove.

In the gray of the dawn, &c.

"You have changed the song, Will," said Pharold, as the other ended; "you have added and taken away."

The young man reddened, but merely replied that he had forgot some verses, and been obliged to put new ones; and Pharold, taking no further notice, continued his conversation with his companions. In the meantime, the consultation between the old lady and d.i.c.kon had gone on throughout the song, and was still continued.

"Well, well, d.i.c.kon, my boy," rejoined the old lady to something that her companion had said under cover of the singing, "keep a good tongue in your head for a while, and we'll see what we can make of it. It is a shame, indeed, that he should have his own way of getting so much stuff, no one knows how--from the _Spirit_, I think--and prevent you from following your way of getting some too, specially when it's all to go with the rest. And he's proud of his way of getting money, too.

Did you see with what an air he poured the shiners in?"

"That I did, that I did," replied the other; "curse him! I'd get as many as he, if he'd let me."

"Ay, but you see the thing is, d.i.c.k," she answered, "he gets it, no one knows how, without ever saying a word about it to any one. Now, you follow the same plan, my chick; and if he asks you, you can then tell him to mind his own business. But hush, he's looking at us. Bid Bill give us another stave."

"Bill," cried d.i.c.kon, "give us another touch of it, there's a good 'un. Sing us Old Dobbin, and then come here and take a swig of the bingo with me and Mother Gray."

Bill was not at all reluctant, and without the slightest appearance of bashful hesitation again began to pour fourth his fine voice in song.

The air, however, was of a very different kind, as far as expression went, from that which he had formerly chosen, which had been somewhat more sentimental and solemn than the words in general required, or than might have been expected from the personage by whom it was sung.

In the present case, his tones were all lively, and the song seemed well known to all his companions.

SONG.

1.

Lift your head, Robin!

Lift it and see, Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, Under the tree.

Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, His old noddle bobbing, As if there were strangers upon the green lea?

2.

Lie quiet, lie quiet, Though danger be near, If we make not a riot There's nothing to fear.

If you will but try it, And only lie quiet, There is no harm will happen my own little dear.

3.

I have heard of the fairy That walks in the night, With a figure so airy And fingers so light, That though watch-dogs hairy May sleep in the airy, She will empty your hen-coops before morning light.

4.

I have heard of the witches That ride in the dark, And despite hedge and ditches Get into the park; Nim hares from their niches, Without any hitches, And think man-traps and spring-guns a toothless dog's bark.

5.

Then lift your head, Robin, Lift it to find Why the bells of old Dobbin Sound on the night wind; Then lift your head, Robin, For my heart is throbbing, About witches and fairies and things of the kind.

6.

Lie still, 'tis no fairy That trips the green sod; To hen-coop or dairy No witch takes her road.

No, no! 'tis no fairy, Nor anything airy; Lie still and be silent, the _beaks_ are abroad!

This very edifying composition seemed to give infinitely greater satisfaction to the generality of the gipsies than the former song had done; and especially in those places where the singer contrived to modulate his voice, so as to change the tone from the male to the female, or from the female to the male, as the words required, the approbation of his hearers was loud and vehement. Pharold alone appeared somewhat gloomy upon the occasion; and were one to look into his breast, which we do not intend to do very deeply on this occasion, one might see a strange and bitter contest between early feelings, habits, and inclinations, and refinements and tastes acquired from the most opposite sources--a state of things so discordant in all their elements, that nothing but an originally wild and eccentric nature could have endured its existence in the same bosom. Some one has said, "_Malheureux celui qui est en avant de son siecle_;" and it certainly might be said, in every cla.s.s of society, "_Malheureux celui qui est au-dessus de son etat_." Pharold then became gloomy, and felt disgusted at things which amused and interested his companions; nor, perhaps, was his gloom decreased by seeing that the beautiful young companion who leaned beside him was as much pleased and amused as the rest.

"I thought that I had taught you to despise such things, Lena," he said in a low tone, and with somewhat of a frowning brow.

"Yes, yes," she replied, colouring brightly; "and so I do, when I think; but yet--"

She was interrupted by the man named d.i.c.kon, who gave a low whistle, and exclaimed at the same time, repeating apart of his companion's song,--

Lift your head, Robin, Lift it and see, Why shakes his bells, Dobbin, Under the tree!

And almost at the same moment one of the horses, of which the gipsies had several feeding upon the common just above, repeated a low neigh, which had been heard in the first instance by d.i.c.kon, as he was called, alone. All was instantly silent; and then the jumping sort of noise which a horse with a clog upon his feet makes, when endeavouring to go fast, was heard from the common; and Pharold's practised ear could also distinguish, proceeding from the gravel of the road, the sound of a man's footstep, the near approach of which had probably frightened the horse.

"Jump up, Will," he cried quickly, addressing the singer; "jump up, and see who it is. Stop him up there! If he want me, whistle twice; if you want help, whistle once!"

The young man was up the bank in a moment; but the length of time that elapsed before they heard any farther sound made them at first fancy that they had been mistaken in thinking that any one approached, and then showed them that in the clear silence of the night the sounds had made themselves heard farther than they had at first imagined. All kept a profound silence; but, after the lapse of about a minute, the murmur of distant voices was distinguished, and then came a low long whistle. Every one started on his feet, but the next moment a second whistle was heard, and Pharold said calmly, "It is for me! I may be absent, perhaps, for an hour or so: but as the young man has come to-night instead of to-morrow, we will set off all the earlier in the morning."

He spoke to one of the elder men near him; but in a tone of voice loud enough to be heard by those around. d.i.c.kon and Mother Gray gave each other a look; and when Pharold slowly took his way up the bank she stuck her tongue into her toothless cheek with very little of that reverence in her looks which she sometimes professed for the leader of the tribe.

Soon after he was gone the young man called Will returned; and was questioned by several of the gipsies regarding the stranger who had intruded upon them at so late an hour. All that he could or would reply was, that he was a young fellow with a sword by his side, and that he had walked away with Pharold; with which tidings they were forced to content themselves, and their revels went on and concluded much as they had begun.

CHAPTER XII.

Let any one who is fond of sublime sensations take his hat and staff, and climb a high hill by a moonlight midnight. There is apart of that dust of earth, which gathers so sadly upon our spirit during our daily commune with this sordid world, cast off at every step. The very act of climbing has something enn.o.bling in it, and the clearer air we breathe, the elevation to which we rise, all gives the mind a sensation of power and lightness, as if it had partly shaken off the load of clay that weighs it down to the ground. But still more, when with solitude--the deep solitude of night--we rise up high above the sleeping world, with the bright stars for our only companions, and the calm moon for our only light--when we look through the profound depth of s.p.a.ce, and see it peopled by never-ending orbs--when we gaze round our extended horizon and see the power of G.o.d on every side,--then the immortal triumphs over the mortal, and we feel our better being strong within us. The cares, the sorrows, the anxieties of earth seem as dust in the balance weighed with mightier things; and the grandest earthly ambition that ever conquered worlds and wept for more, may feel itself humiliated to the dust in the presence of silence, and solitude, and s.p.a.ce, and millions of eternal suns.

The cool night air playing round his brow calmed the feverish headache which anxiety and excitement had left upon Edward de Vaux; and as he walked forth from the park, and climbed the high hill towards Morley Down, with the stars looking at him from the clear heaven, and the moon glistening on every pebble of his path, it is wonderful how much his mind felt soothed and tranquilized, how small the cares of earth became in his sight. So much so, indeed, was this the case, that although, as he mounted the steep ascent, he heard distinctly two several shots fired, apparently, a great deal too near his aunt's preserves--a sound which, at any other time, might have roused his indignation in a very superabundant degree--he now only paused for a moment, and turned round to listen; and, hearing no more, walked on, regarding the destruction of some hares or pheasants as a matter of but small consequence. When he reached the common, the beauty of the moonlight scene, with its broad lights and shadows, and the solemn effect of silence, and solitude, and night, again made him halt in his advance, to gaze upwards into the depth, and feel the mightiness of the universe around him; and that, too, sunk all human cares so low by comparison, that he began to think he could bear any disclosure with calm tranquillity.

He then walked on rapidly, regretting, perhaps, a little, that he had not asked Manners the exact position of the gipsy encampment, as he had become warm in climbing the hill, and the wind that blew over the common felt chill, and made a slight shudder pa.s.s over him. The little mound, however, was his resource, as it had been that of his friend when engaged on a similar errand; and, walking on to the spot where it stood, he climbed the side, and cast his eyes over the wide and broken flat grounds below him. In the direction of the sand-pit, he almost immediately beheld a light; and the next instant a fine mellow voice singing showed him that the gipsies were not only there but awake, though he was too far off to catch any thing but a few detached notes of a merry air rising up from below. Turning his steps in that direction, he had proceeded about a quarter of the way from the mound to the encampment, when an old white horse, which had lain down after feeding, started up at his approach, and hobbled away with its clogged feet, as fast as it could, uttering, at the same time, one or two short neighs, as if perfectly aware that its masters were of that cla.s.s which does not like to be interrupted without warning. The light of the fire, now rising up above the abrupt edge of the sand-pit, and showing the dark outline of the bank, with the few black bushes cutting sharp upon the glare, pointed out to De Vaux the exact spot where the gipsies were to be found, when suddenly a human figure was seen rising rapidly across the light; and a minute or two after the form of a stout youth planted itself directly in the way of the wanderer.

"Who do you want, and what?" demanded the young man, eyeing him from head to foot with a look of no particular satisfaction.

De Vaux, however, answered him at once in such a manner as to put a stop to any farther enquiries, saying, "I want to see a person called Pharold, who is with you here. Can you bring me to him?"

"No," replied the youth, "but I can bring him to you;" and he uttered a low, long whistle, succeeded by another, which was quickly followed by the appearance of Pharold himself, who, as he approached, took care to examine his visiter as accurately as the moonlight would permit.

When he came near, without addressing De Vaux, or waiting to hear his errand, he turned to the young man, saying, "You may return, William;"

and seeing a slight inclination to linger, he added, in a more authoritative tone, "Return!"