This is a modern-English version of Romano Lavo-Lil: Word Book of the Romany; Or, English Gypsy Language: With Specimens of Gypsy Poetry, and an Account of Certain Gypsyries or Places Inhabited by Them, and of Various Things Relating to Gypsy Life in England, originally written by Borrow, George.
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“Can you rokra Romany?
Can you play the bosh?
Can you jal adrey the staripen?
Can you chin the cost?”“Can you handle the Romany?
Can you join in the game?
Can you write the story down?
Can you look over the cost?”“Can you speak the Roman tongue?
Can you play the fiddle?
Can you eat the prison-loaf?
Can you cut and whittle?”“Can you speak the Romani language?
Can you play the violin?
Can you eat the prison loaf?
Can you carve and shape?”
ROMANO LAVO-LIL
WORD-BOOK OF THE ROMANY
OR, ENGLISH GYPSY LANGUAGE
WITH SPECIMENS OF GYPSY POETRY, AND
AN
ACCOUNT OF CERTAIN GYPSYRIES OR
PLACES INHABITED BY THEM, AND
OF VARIOUS THINGS RELATING TO
GYPSY LIFE IN ENGLAND
WORD-BOOK OF THE ROMANY
OR, ENGLISH GYPSY LANGUAGE
WITH EXAMPLES OF GYPSY POETRY, AND
A DESCRIPTION OF SOME GYPSY CAMPS OR __A_TAG_PLACEHOLDER_0__
PLACES THEY LIVE, AND
DIFFERENT ASPECTS OF
Gypsy Life in England
By GEORGE BORROW
By GEORGE BORROW
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1905
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1905
p. vThe Author of the present work wishes to state that the Vocabulary, which forms part of it, has existed in manuscript for many years. It is one of several vocabularies of various dialects of the Gypsy tongue, made by him in different countries. The most considerable—that of the dialect of the Zincali or Rumijelies (Romany Chals) of Spain—was published in the year 1841. Amongst those which remain unpublished is one of the Transylvanian Gypsy, made principally at Kolosvār in the year 1844.
p. vThe author of this work wants to mention that the vocabulary included has been in manuscript form for many years. It's one of several vocabularies of different dialects of the Gypsy language that he created in various countries. The most significant one—covering the dialect of the Zincali or Rumijelies (Romany Chals) of Spain—was published in 1841. Among the unpublished ones is a vocabulary of the Transylvanian Gypsy, mainly compiled in Kolosvár in 1844.
December 1, 1873.
December 1, 1873.
p. viiCONTENTS
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PAGE PAGE |
The English Gypsy Language The English Romani Language |
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Romano Lavo-Lil: Word-Book of the Romany Romano Lavo-Lil: Romany Word Book |
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Rhymed List of Gypsy Verbs Rhymed List of Romani Verbs |
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Betie Rokrapenes: Little Sayings Betie Rokrapenes: Short Quotes |
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Cotorres of Mi-Dibble’s Lil chiv’d adrey Romanes: Pieces of Scripture cast into Romany Cotorres of Mi-Dibble’s Lil chiv’d adrey Romanes: Passages of Scripture mixed with Romani language. |
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The Lord’s Prayer in the Gypsy Dialect of Transylvania The Lord’s Prayer in the Gypsy Dialect of Transylvania |
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Lil of Romano Jinnypen: Book of the Wisdom of the Egyptians Lil of Romano Jinnypen: Book of the Wisdom of the Egyptians |
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Romane Navior of Temes and Gavior: Gypsy Names of Countries and Towns Romane Navior from Temes and Gavior: Gypsy Names for Countries and Towns |
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Thomas Rossar-mescro, or Thomas Herne Thomas Rossar-Mescro, or Thomas Herne |
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Kokkodus Artarus Kokkodus Artarus |
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Mang, Prala: Beg on, Brother Mang, Prala: Beg on, Bro |
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English Gypsy Songs:— English Gypsy Songs:— |
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Welling Kattaney: The Gypsy Meeting Welling Kattaney: The Gypsy Gathering |
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Lelling Cappi: Making a Fortune Lelling Cappi: Making Money |
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The Dui Chalor: The Two Gypsies The Dui Chalor: The Two Gypsies |
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Miro Romany Chi: My Roman Lass Miro Romany Chi: My Roman Girl |
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Ava, Chi: Yes, my Girl Ava, Chi: Yes, my girl |
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The Temeskoe Rye: The Youthful Earl The Temeskoe Rye: The Young Earl |
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Camo-Gillie: Love-Song Camo-Ghillie: Love Song |
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The Rye and the Rawne: The Squire and Lady The Rye and the Rawne: The Squire and Lady |
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Romany Suttur Gillie: Gypsy Lullaby Romany Suttur Gillie: Gypsy Lullaby |
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Sharrafi Kralyissa: Our Blessed Queen Sharrafi Kralyissa: Our Blessed Queen |
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Plastra Lesti: Run for it! Plastra Lesti: Run for it! |
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Foreign Gypsy Songs:— International Romani Music:— |
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The Romany Songstress The Romani Songstress |
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L’Erajai: The Frair L’Erajai: The Frair |
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Malbrun: Malbrouk Malbrun: Malbrouk |
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The English Gypsies:— The English Roma |
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Tugney Beshor: Sorrowful Years Tugney Beshor: Sorrowful Years |
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Their History Their History |
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Gypsy Names Romani Names |
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Fortune-Telling Fortune-Telling |
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The Hukni The Hukni |
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Cauring Cauring |
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Metropolitan Gypsyries:— Metropolitan Gypsies:— |
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Wandsworth Wandsworth |
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The Potteries The Potteries |
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The Mount The Mountain |
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Ryley Bosvil Ryley Bosvil |
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Kirk Yetholm Kirk Yetholm |
p. 3THE ENGLISH GYPSY LANGUAGE
The Gypsies of England call their language, as the Gypsies of many other countries call theirs, Romany or Romanes, a word either derived from the Indian Ram or Rama, which signifies a husband, or from the town Rome, which took its name either from the Indian Ram, or from the Gaulic word, Rom, which is nearly tantamount to husband or man, for as the Indian Ram means a husband or man, so does the Gaulic Pom signify that which constitutes a man and enables him to become a husband.
The Gypsies in England refer to their language, just like Gypsies in many other countries do, as Romany or Romanes. This term either comes from the Indian word Ram or Rama, which means husband, or it's possibly derived from the city of Rome, named either after the Indian Ram or from the Gaulish word Rom, which is close to meaning husband or man. Just as the Indian Ram represents a husband or man, the Gaulish Pom signifies what makes a man and allows him to become a husband.
Before entering on the subject of the English Gypsy, I may perhaps be expected to say something about the original Gypsy tongue. It is, however, very difficult to say with certainty anything on the subject. There can be no doubt that a veritable Gypsy tongue at one time existed, but that it at present exists there is great doubt indeed. The probability is that the Gypsy at present exists only in dialects more or less like the language originally spoken by the Gypsy or Zingaro race. Several dialects of the Gypsy are p. 4to be found which still preserve along with a considerable number of seemingly original words certain curious grammatical forms, quite distinct from those of any other speech. Others are little more than jargons, in which a certain number of Gypsy words are accommodated to the grammatical forms of the languages of particular countries. In the foremost class of the purer Gypsy dialects, I have no hesitation in placing those of Russia, Wallachia, Bulgaria, and Transylvania. They are so alike, that he who speaks one of them can make himself very well understood by those who speak any of the rest; from whence it may reasonably be inferred that none of them can differ much from the original Gypsy speech; so that when speaking of Gypsy language, any one of these may be taken as a standard. One of them—I shall not mention which—I have selected for that purpose, more from fancy than any particular reason.
Before discussing the topic of the English Gypsy, I should probably say something about the original Gypsy language. However, it's quite difficult to state anything with certainty on this matter. There’s no doubt that a genuine Gypsy language once existed, but whether it still exists today is highly questionable. It seems likely that the Gypsy language currently exists only in dialects that are somewhat similar to the language originally spoken by the Gypsy or Zingaro people. There are several Gypsy dialects p. 4that maintain a fair number of seemingly original words along with some peculiar grammatical structures, which are quite different from those of any other languages. Others are little more than jargons, where a handful of Gypsy words have been adapted to fit the grammatical rules of the languages of specific countries. Among the purer Gypsy dialects, I have no doubt in categorizing those from Russia, Wallachia, Bulgaria, and Transylvania. They are so similar that someone who speaks one of them can easily be understood by speakers of the others; this leads to the reasonable conclusion that none of them differ significantly from the original Gypsy language. Therefore, when referring to the Gypsy language, any of these can be considered a standard. I've picked one of them—I won’t specify which one—more out of preference than for any specific reason.
The Gypsy language, then, or what with some qualification I may call such, may consist of some three thousand words, the greater part of which are decidedly of Indian origin, being connected with the Sanscrit or some other Indian dialect; the rest consist of words picked up by the Gypsies from various languages in their wanderings from the East. It has two genders, masculine and feminine; o represents the masculine and i the feminine: for example, boro rye, a great gentleman; bori rani, a great lady. There is properly no indefinite article: gajo or gorgio, a man or gentile; o gajo, the man. The noun has two numbers, the singular and the plural. It has various cases formed by postpositions, but has, strictly speaking, p. 5no genitive. It has prepositions as well as postpositions; sometimes the preposition is used with the noun and sometimes the postposition: for example, cad o gav, from the town; chungale mannochendar, evil men from, i.e. from evil men. The verb has no infinitive; in lieu thereof, the conjunction ‘that’ is placed before some person of some tense. ‘I wish to go’ is expressed in Gypsy by camov te jaw, literally, I wish that I go; thou wishest to go, caumes te jas, thou wishest that thou goest; caumen te jallan, they wish that they go. Necessity is expressed by the impersonal verb and the conjunction ‘that’: hom te jay, I must go; lit. I am that I go; shan te jallan, they are that they go; and so on. There are words to denote the numbers from one up to a thousand. For the number nine there are two words, nu and ennyo. Almost all the Gypsy numbers are decidedly connected with the Sanscrit.
The Gypsy language, or what I can somewhat call it, has about three thousand words, most of which clearly come from Indian origins, linked to Sanskrit or some other Indian dialect; the rest are words the Gypsies picked up from various languages during their travels from the East. It has two genders, masculine and feminine; o represents the masculine and i the feminine: for instance, boro rye, meaning great gentleman; bori rani, meaning great lady. There isn't really an indefinite article: gajo or gorgio means a man or gentile; o gajo means the man. The noun has two forms: singular and plural. It has different cases formed by postpositions but has, strictly speaking, p. 5no genitive. It includes both prepositions and postpositions; sometimes the preposition is used with the noun, and sometimes the postposition is used: for example, cad o gav, meaning from the town; chungale mannochendar, meaning evil men from, i.e. from evil men. The verb doesn’t have an infinitive; instead, the conjunction ‘that’ comes before a person in some tense. ‘I wish to go’ is said in Gypsy as camov te jaw, literally, I wish that I go; you wish to go, caumes te jas, you wish that you go; caumen te jallan, they wish that they go. Necessity is expressed with the impersonal verb and the conjunction ‘that’: hom te jay, I must go; literally, I am that I go; shan te jallan, they are that they go; and so on. There are words to represent numbers from one up to a thousand. For the number nine, there are two words, nu and ennyo. Almost all the Gypsy numbers are definitely linked to Sanskrit.
After these observations on what may be called the best preserved kind of Gypsy, I proceed to a lower kind, that of England. The English Gypsy speech is very scanty, amounting probably to not more than fourteen hundred words, the greater part of which seem to be of Indian origin. The rest form a strange medley taken by the Gypsies from various Eastern and Western languages: some few are Arabic, many are Persian; some are Sclavo-Wallachian, others genuine Sclavonian. Here and there a Modern Greek or Hungarian word is discoverable; but in the whole English Gypsy tongue I have never noted but one French word—namely, tass or dass, by which some of the very old Gypsies occasionally call a cup.
After looking at what can be considered the best-preserved type of Gypsy, I will move on to a lesser type, specifically the one found in England. The English Gypsy language is quite limited, containing probably no more than fourteen hundred words, most of which seem to have Indian roots. The remainder is a strange mix borrowed by the Gypsies from various Eastern and Western languages: a few are Arabic, many are Persian; some are Sclavo-Wallachian, while others are genuine Sclavonian. Occasionally, you can find a Modern Greek or Hungarian word, but in the entirety of the English Gypsy language, I've only come across one French word—namely, tass or dass, which some of the very old Gypsies sometimes use to refer to a cup.
p. 6Their vocabulary being so limited, the Gypsies have of course words of their own only for the most common objects and ideas; as soon as they wish to express something beyond these they must have recourse to English, and even to express some very common objects, ideas, and feelings, they are quite at a loss in their own tongue, and must either employ English words or very vague terms indeed. They have words for the sun and the moon, but they have no word for the stars, and when they wish to name them in Gypsy, they use a word answering to ‘lights.’ They have a word for a horse and for a mare, but they have no word for a colt, which in some other dialects of the Gypsy is called kuro; and to express a colt they make use of the words tawno gry, a little horse, which after all may mean a pony. They have words for black, white, and red, but none for the less positive colours—none for grey, green, and yellow. They have no definite word either for hare or rabbit; shoshoi, by which they generally designate a rabbit, signifies a hare as well, and kaun-engro, a word invented to distinguish a hare, and which signifies ear-fellow, is no more applicable to a hare than to a rabbit, as both have long ears. They have no certain word either for to-morrow or yesterday, collico signifying both indifferently. A remarkable coincidence must here be mentioned, as it serves to show how closely related are Sanscrit and Gypsy. Shoshoi and collico are nearly of the same sound as the Sanscrit sasa and kalya, and exactly of the same import; for as the Gypsy shoshoi signifies both hare and rabbit, and collico to-morrow as well as yesterday, so does the Sanscrit p. 7sasa signify both hare and rabbit, and kalya to-morrow as well as yesterday.
p. 6Their vocabulary is quite limited, so the Gypsies only have their own words for the most basic objects and ideas. Whenever they want to express something beyond that, they resort to English. Even for some common objects, ideas, and feelings, they struggle to find the right words in their own language and often have to use English or very vague terms. They have words for the sun and the moon, but they don’t have a word for stars; when they want to refer to them in Gypsy, they use a word that translates to "lights." They have a word for a horse and a mare, but not for a colt, which in other Gypsy dialects is called kuro. To describe a colt, they say tawno gry, meaning "a little horse," which could also refer to a pony. They have words for black, white, and red, but none for less distinct colors—no words for grey, green, and yellow. There’s no specific word for hare or rabbit; shoshoi, which they generally use for rabbit, also means hare, and kaun-engro, a word created to identify a hare, means "ear fellow," but it applies equally to both, as they both have long ears. They also lack distinct words for tomorrow and yesterday; collico means both without distinction. A notable coincidence is worth mentioning to illustrate how closely related Sanskrit and Gypsy are. Shoshoi and collico sound similar to the Sanskrit sasa and kalya and have exactly the same meanings; for just as the Gypsy shoshoi means both hare and rabbit, and collico refers to both tomorrow and yesterday, so does the Sanskrit p. 7sasa mean both hare and rabbit, and kalya mean both tomorrow and yesterday.
The poverty of their language in nouns the Gypsies endeavour to remedy by the frequent use of the word engro. This word affixed to a noun or verb turns it into something figurative, by which they designate, seldom very appropriately, some object for which they have no positive name. Engro properly means a fellow, and engri, which is the feminine or neuter modification, a thing. When the noun or verb terminates in a vowel, engro is turned into mengro, and engri into mengri. I have already shown how, by affixing engro to kaun, the Gypsies have invented a word to express a hare. In like manner, by affixing engro to pov, earth, they have coined a word for a potato, which they call pov-engro or pov-engri, earth-fellow or thing; and by adding engro to rukh, or mengro to rooko, they have really a very pretty figurative name for a squirrel, which they call rukh-engro or rooko-mengro, literally a fellow of the tree. Poggra-mengri, a breaking thing, and pea-mengri, a drinking thing, by which they express, respectively, a mill and a teapot, will serve as examples of the manner by which they turn verbs into substantives. This method of finding names for objects, for which there are properly no terms in Gypsy, might be carried to a great length—much farther, indeed, than the Gypsies are in the habit of carrying it: a slack-rope dancer might be termed bittitardranoshellokellimengro, or slightly-drawn-rope-dancing fellow; a drum, duicoshtcurenomengri, or a thing beaten by two sticks; a tambourine, angustrecurenimengri, or a thing beaten by the fingers; p. 8and a fife, muipudenimengri, or thing blown by the mouth. All these compound words, however, would be more or less indefinite, and far beyond the comprehension of the Gypsies in general.
The Gypsies try to address the lack of nouns in their language by often using the word engro. This word attached to a noun or verb makes it figurative, designating an object they don’t have a specific name for, often inappropriately. Engro means a fellow, and engri, which is the feminine or neuter form, means a thing. When a noun or verb ends in a vowel, engro changes to mengro, and engri becomes mengri. I’ve already shown how adding engro to kaun creates a word for a hare. Similarly, by adding engro to pov, meaning earth, they’ve coined a word for a potato, pov-engro or pov-engri, meaning earth-fellow or thing; and by using engro with rukh, or mengro with rooko, they’ve created a nice figurative name for a squirrel, rukh-engro or rooko-mengro, literally a fellow of the tree. Examples like poggra-mengri, a breaking thing, and pea-mengri, a drinking thing, refer to a mill and a teapot, respectively, showing how they transform verbs into nouns. This way of naming objects without specific terms in Gypsy could go on a lot longer—much more than the Gypsies actually do. A slack-rope dancer might be called bittitardranoshellokellimengro, meaning slightly-drawn-rope-dancing fellow; a drum, duicoshtcurenomengri, or a thing beaten by two sticks; a tambourine, angustrecurenimengri, or a thing beaten by the fingers; and a fife, muipudenimengri, or a thing blown by the mouth. However, all these compound words would be vague and probably beyond what most Gypsies would understand. p. 8
The verbs are very few, and with two or three exceptions expressive only of that which springs from what is physical and bodily, totally unconnected with the mind, for which, indeed, the English Gypsy has no word; the term used for mind, zi—which is a modification of the Hungarian sziv—meaning heart. There are such verbs in this dialect as to eat, drink, walk, run, hear, see, live, die; but there are no such verbs as to hope, mean, hinder, prove, forbid, teaze, soothe. There is the verb apasavello, I believe; but that word, which is Wallachian, properly means being trusted, and was incorporated in the Gypsy language from the Gypsies obtaining goods on trust from the Wallachians, which they never intended to pay for. There is the verb for love, camova; but that word is expressive of physical desire, and is connected with the Sanscrit Cama, or Cupid. Here, however, the English must not triumph over the Gypsies, as their own verb ‘love’ is connected with a Sanscrit word signifying ‘lust.’ One pure and abstract metaphysical verb the English Gypsy must be allowed to possess—namely, penchava, I think, a word of illustrious origin, being derived from the Persian pendashtan.
The verbs are very few, and with two or three exceptions, they only express things related to the physical and bodily, completely disconnected from the mind, for which, in fact, the English Gypsy has no word; the term used for mind, zi—which is a variation of the Hungarian sziv—means heart. In this dialect, there are verbs like to eat, drink, walk, run, hear, see, live, and die; but there are no verbs like to hope, mean, hinder, prove, forbid, tease, or soothe. There is the verb apasavello, I believe; but that word, which comes from Wallachian, actually means being trusted and was adopted into Gypsy language from when Gypsies got goods on credit from Wallachians, which they never intended to pay for. There is the verb for love, camova; but that term solely expresses physical desire and is related to the Sanskrit Cama, or Cupid. Here, however, the English cannot take pride over the Gypsies, as their own verb ‘love’ is linked to a Sanskrit word meaning ‘lust.’ One pure and abstract metaphysical verb the English Gypsy can be said to have is penchava, I think, a word of notable origin, derived from the Persian pendashtan.
The English Gypsies can count up to six, and have the numerals for ten and twenty, but with those for seven, eight, and nine, perhaps not three Gypsies in England are acquainted. When they p. 9wish to express those numerals in their own language, they have recourse to very uncouth and roundabout methods, saying for seven, dui trins ta yeck, two threes and one; for eight, dui stors, or two fours; and for nine, desh sore but yeck, or ten all but one. Yet at one time the English Gypsies possessed all the numerals as their Transylvanian, Wallachian, and Russian brethren still do; even within the last fifty years there were Gypsies who could count up to a hundred. These were tatchey Romany, real Gypsies, of the old sacred black race, who never slept in a house, never entered a church, and who, on their death-beds, used to threaten their children with a curse, provided they buried them in a churchyard. The two last of them rest, it is believed, some six feet deep beneath the moss of a wild, hilly heath,—called in Gypsy the Heviskey Tan, or place of holes; in English, Mousehold,—near an ancient city, which the Gentiles call Norwich, and the Romans the Chong Gav, or the town of the hill.
The English Gypsies can count up to six and have words for ten and twenty, but when it comes to seven, eight, and nine, probably not more than three Gypsies in England know them. When they
With respect to Grammar, the English Gypsy is perhaps in a worse condition than with respect to words. Attention is seldom paid to gender; boro rye and boro rawnie being said, though as rawnie is feminine, bori and not boro should be employed. The proper Gypsy plural terminations are retained in nouns, but in declension prepositions are generally substituted for postpositions, and those prepositions English. The proper way of conjugating verbs is seldom or never observed, and the English method is followed. They say, I dick, I see, instead of dico; I dick’d, I saw, instead of dikiom; if I had dick’d, instead of dikiomis. Some of the peculiar features p. 10of Gypsy grammar yet retained by the English Gypsies will be found noted in the Dictionary.
When it comes to grammar, English Gypsies are probably in worse shape than they are with vocabulary. Gender is rarely considered; they say boro rye and boro rawnie, even though rawnie is feminine, so bori should actually be used instead of boro. They still keep the right plural endings for nouns, but when it comes to declension, prepositions are generally used instead of postpositions, and those prepositions are English. They rarely or never use the correct way to conjugate verbs and follow the English method instead. They say, I dick, I see, instead of dico; I dick’d, I saw, instead of dikiom; if I had dick’d, instead of dikiomis. Some of the unique aspects of Gypsy grammar that English Gypsies still keep can be found noted in the Dictionary. p. 10
I have dwelt at some length on the deficiencies and shattered condition of the English Gypsy tongue; justice, however, compels me to say that it is far purer and less deficient than several of the continental Gypsy dialects. It preserves far more of original Gypsy peculiarities than the French, Italian, and Spanish dialects, and its words retain more of the original Gypsy form than the words of those three; moreover, however scanty it may be, it is far more copious than the French or the Italian Gypsy, though it must be owned that in respect to copiousness it is inferior to the Spanish Gypsy, which is probably the richest in words of all the Gypsy dialects in the world, having names for very many of the various beasts, birds, and creeping things, for most of the plants and fruits, for all the days of the week, and all the months in the year; whereas most other Gypsy dialects, the English amongst them, have names for only a few common animals and insects, for a few common fruits and natural productions, none for the months, and only a name for a single day—the Sabbath—which name is a modification of the Modern Greek κυριακηὴ.
I have talked at length about the shortcomings and broken state of the English Gypsy language; however, I have to acknowledge that it is much purer and less deficient than several of the Gypsy dialects found in Europe. It keeps a lot more of the original Gypsy characteristics than the French, Italian, and Spanish dialects, and its words retain more of the original Gypsy form than those from the other three. Furthermore, even if it’s limited, it has many more words than the French or Italian Gypsy dialects, though it must be admitted that it falls short compared to Spanish Gypsy, which is probably the richest in vocabulary of all the Gypsy dialects in the world. It has specific names for many of the different animals, birds, and insects, for most plants and fruits, for every day of the week, and all the months of the year. In contrast, most other Gypsy dialects, including English, have names for only a few common animals and insects, for a few usual fruits and natural items, none for the months, and only a name for a single day—the Sabbath—which is a variation of the Modern Greek κυριακηὴ.
Though the English Gypsy is generally spoken with a considerable alloy of English words and English grammatical forms, enough of its proper words and features remain to form genuine Gypsy sentences, which shall be understood not only by the Gypsies of England, but by those of Russia, Hungary, Wallachia, and even of Turkey; for example:—
Though the English Gypsy language is usually mixed with a lot of English words and grammar, there are still enough of its own words and features to create authentic Gypsy sentences. These sentences can be understood not just by the Gypsies in England but also by those in Russia, Hungary, Wallachia, and even Turkey; for example:—
It is clear-sounding and melodious, and well adapted to the purposes of poetry. Let him who doubts peruse attentively the following lines:—
It sounds clear and melodic, making it perfect for poetry. Those who doubt should read the following lines carefully:—
Coin si deya, coin se dado?
Pukker mande drey Romanes,
Ta mande pukkeravava tute.Who gives, who receives?
I call upon my Romani people,
So I ask you all.Rossar-mescri minri deya!
Wardo-mescro minro dado!
Coin se dado, coin si deya?
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes;
Knau pukker tute mande.Let’s hear it, my dear!
Speak up, my good guy!
Who receives, who gives?
I am calling upon you all, my Romani;
I just want to hear you.Petulengro minro dado,
Purana minri deya!
Tatchey Romany si men—
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes,
Ta tute’s pukker’d mande.Hey little brother,
Old man, give me something!
You’re truly Romani—
My dad’s the perfect Romani,
And you’re the perfect dad.
The first three lines of the above ballad are perhaps the oldest specimen of English Gypsy at present extant, and perhaps the purest. They are at least as old as the time of Elizabeth, and can pass among the Zigany in the heart of Russia for Ziganskie. The other lines are not so ancient. The piece is composed in a metre something like that of the ancient Sclavonian songs, and contains the questions which two strange Gypsies, who suddenly meet, put to each other, and the answers which they return.
The first three lines of the ballad above are probably the oldest example of English Gypsy we have today, and likely the most authentic. They date back to at least the time of Elizabeth and can be recognized by the Zigany in the heart of Russia as Ziganskie. The other lines aren’t as old. The piece is written in a meter similar to that of the ancient Sclavonian songs and features the questions exchanged between two unfamiliar Gypsies who meet unexpectedly, along with their responses.
p. 13ROMANO LAVO-LIL—WORD-BOOK OF THE ROMANY
p. 15A
Abri, ad. prep. Out, not within, abroad: soving abri, sleeping abroad, not in a house. Celtic, Aber (the mouth or outlet of a river).
Shelter, ad. prep. Out, not inside, outside: sleeping outside, not in a house. Celtic, Aber (the mouth or outlet of a river).
Acai / Acoi, ad. Here.
Acai / Acoi, ad. Here.
Adje, v. n. To stay, stop. See Atch, az.
Adje, v. n. To stay, stop. See Atch, az.
Adrey, prep. Into.
Adrey, prep. Into.
Ajaw, ad. So. Wallachian, Asha.
Ajaw, ad. So. Wallachian, Asha.
Aladge, a. Ashamed. Sans. Latch, laj.
Aladge, a. Ashamed. Without. Latch, laj.
Aley, ad. Down: soving aley, lying down; to kin aley, to buy off, ransom. Hun. Ala, alat.
Aley, ad. Down: soving aley, lying down; to kin aley, to buy off, ransom. Hun. Ala, alat.
Amande, pro. pers. dat. To me.
Amande, pro. pers. dat. To me.
An, v. a. imp. Bring: an lis opré, bring it up.
An, v. a. imp. Bring: bring it here, bring it up.
Ana, v. a. Bring. Sans. Ani.
Ana, v. a. Bring. Without. Ani.
Ando, prep. In.
Ando, prep. Inside.
Anglo, prep. Before.
Anglo, prep. Before.
Apasavello, v. n. I believe.
I believe.
Apopli, ad. Again. Spanish Gypsy, Apala (after). Wal. Apoi (then, afterwards).
Apopli, ad. Again. Spanish Gypsy, Apala (after). Wal. Apoi (then, afterwards).
Apré, ad. prep. Up: kair lis apré, do it up. Vid. Opré.
Apré, ad. prep. Up: kair lis apré, do it up. See. Opré.
Aranya / Araunya, s. Lady. Hungarian Gypsy, Aranya. See Rawnie.
Aranya / Araunya, s. Lady. Hungarian Gypsy, Aranya. See Rawnie.
Artapen, s. Pardon, forgiveness.
Artapen, s. Apology, forgiveness.
Artáros. Arthur.
Artáros. Arthur.
Asā / Asau, ad. Also, likewise, too: meero pal asau, my brother also.
Asā / Asau, ad. Also, likewise, too: meero pal asau, my brother too.
Asarlas, ad. At all, in no manner.
At all, in no way.
Asa. An affix used in forming the second person singular of the present tense; e.g. camasa, thou lovest.
Asa. An affix used to form the second person singular of the present tense; e.g. camasa, you love.
Astis, a. Possible, it is possible: astis mangué, I can; astis lengué, they can.
Astis, a. Possible, it is possible: astis mangué, I can; astis lengué, they can.
Ashā / Ashaw, ad. So: ashaw sorlo, so early. Wal. Asha. See Ajaw.
Ashā / Ashaw, ad. So: ashaw sorlo, so early. Wal. Asha. See Ajaw.
Atch, v. n. To stay, stop.
Atch, v. n. To remain, pause.
Atch opré. Keep up.
Catch up. Keep going.
Atraish, a. part. Afraid. Sans. Tras (to fear), atrāsït (frightened). See Traish.
Atraish, past participle Afraid. Sans. Tras (to fear), atrāsït (frightened). See Traish.
Av, imperat. of Ava, to come: av abri, come out.
Av, imperat. of Ava, to come: av abri, come out.
Ava, ad. Yes. Sans. Eva.
Ava, ad. Yes. Without. Eva.
Ava, v. a. To come.
Ava, v. a. To arrive.
Avata acoi. Come thou here.
Come here.
Avali, ad. Yes. Wal. Aieva (really).
Avali, ad. Yes. Wal. Aieva (for real).
Avava. An affix by which the future tense of a verb is formed, e.g. mor-avava, I will kill. See Vava.
Avava. An addition used to create the future tense of a verb, e.g. mor-avava, I will kill. See Vava.
Aukko, ad. Here.
Here.
Az, v. n. To stay.
Stay.
B
Bal, s. Hair. Tibetian, Bal (wool). Sans. Bala (hair).
Bal, s. Hair. Tibetan, Bal (wool). Sans. Bala (hair).
Baleneskoe, a. Hairy.
Baleneskoe, a. Hairy.
Balormengro. A hairy fellow; Hearne, the name of a Gypsy tribe.
Balormengro. A hairy guy; Hearne, the name of a Gypsy tribe.
Balanser, s. The coin called a sovereign.
Sovereign coin
Ballivas, s. Bacon. Span. Gyp. Balibá.
Ballivas, s. Bacon. Span. Gyp. Balibá.
Bangalo, a. Devilish. See Beng, bengako.
Bangalo, a. Devilish. See Beng, bengako.
Bar, s. A stone, a stoneweight, a pound sterling. Span. Gyp. Bar. Hun. Gyp. Bar. Hindustani, Puthur. Wal. Piatre. Fr. Pierre. Gr. βάρος (weight).
Bar, s. A stone, a stoneweight, a pound sterling. Span. Gyp. Bar. Hun. Gyp. Bar. Hindustani, Puthur. Wal. Piatre. Fr. Pierre. Gr. βάρος (weight).
Bareskey, a. Stony.
Bareskey, adj. Rocky.
Bark, s. Breast, woman’s breast.
Bark, s. Woman's breast.
Bas / Base, s. Pound sterling. Wal. Pes (a weight, burden).
Bas / Base, s. Pound sterling. Wal. Pes (a weight, burden).
Bas-engro, s. A shepherd. Run. Bacso.
Bas-engro, s. A shepherd. Run. Bacso.
Bashadi, s. A fiddle.
Bashadi, s. A violin.
Bata, s. A bee. Sans. Pata.
Bata, s. A bee. Sans. Pata.
Bau, s. Fellow, comrade. See Baw.
Bau, s. Friend, mate. See Baw.
Baul, s. Snail. See Bowle.
Baul, s. Snail. See Bowl.
Baulo, s. Pig, swine. The proper meaning of this word is anything swollen, anything big or bulky. It is connected with the English bowle or bole, the trunk of a tree; also with bowl, boll, and belly; also with whale, the largest of fish, and wale, a tumour; also with the Welsh bol, a belly, and bala, a place of springs and eruptions. It is worthy of remark that the English word pig, besides denoting the same animal as baulo, is of the same original import, being clearly derived from the same root as big, that which is bulky, and the Turkish buyuk, great, huge, vast.
Baulo, s. Pig, swine. The main meaning of this word is anything swollen or large and bulky. It is related to the English words bowl or bole, the trunk of a tree; also to bowl, boll, and belly; to whale, the largest fish, and wale, a tumor; as well as the Welsh bol, meaning belly, and bala, a place of springs and eruptions. It's noteworthy that the English word pig, while referring to the same animal as baulo, shares the same original meaning, clearly coming from the same root as big, which means something bulky, and the Turkish buyuk, meaning great, huge, or vast.
Baulie-mas, s. Pork, swine’s flesh.
Pork, swine’s flesh.
Bavano. Windy, broken-winded.
Bavano. Windy, out of breath.
Bavol, s. Wind, air. Sans. Pavana. See Beval.
Bavol, s. Wind, air. Sans. Pavana. See Beval.
Bavol-engro, s. A wind-fellow; figurative name for a ghost.
Bavol-engro, s. A wind buddy; a figurative term for a ghost.
Baw, bau, s. Fellow, comrade: probably the same as the English country-word baw, bor. Ger. Bauer. Av acoi, baw, Come here, fellow. Boer, in Wallachian, signifies a boyard or lord.
Baw, bau, s. Buddy, mate: likely the same as the English country term baw, bor. Ger. Bauer. Hey you, baw, come here, buddy. Boer, in Wallachian, means a boyar or lord.
Beano, part. pass. Born.
Beano, part. pass. Born.
Bebee, s. Aunt. Rus. Baba (grandmother, old woman, hag); Baba Yagā, the female demon of the Steppes.
Bebee, s. Aunt. Rus. Baba (grandmother, old woman, witch); Baba Yagā, the female demon of the Steppes.
Beng / Bengui, s. Devil. Sans. Pangka (mud). According to the Hindu mythology, there is a hell of mud; the bengues of the Gypsies seem to be its tenants.
Beng / Bengui, s. Devil. Sans. Pangka (mud). According to Hindu mythology, there's a hell of mud; the bengues of the Gypsies appear to be its inhabitants.
Bengako tan, s. Hell. Lit. place belonging to devils.
Bengako tan, s. Hell. Literally, a place belonging to devils.
Bengeskoe potan. Devil’s tinder, sulphur.
Bengeskoe potan. Devil’s tinder, sulfur.
Bengeskoe / Benglo, a. Devilish.
Bengeskoe / Benglo, a. Devilish.
Bengree, s. Waistcoat. Span. Gyp. Blani. Wal. (Blāni fur).
Bengree, s. Waistcoat. Span. Gyp. Blani. Wal. (Blāni fur).
Berro, béro, s. A ship, a hulk for convicts. Span. Gyp. Bero, las galeras, the galleys; presidio, convict garrison.
Berro, béro, s. A ship, a hulking prison for convicts. Span. Gyp. Bero, the galleys; presidio, convict garrison.
Ber-engro, s. A sailor.
Ber-engro, s. A sailor.
Bero-rukh, s. A mast.
Bero-rukh, s. A mast.
Bersh / Besh, s. A year. Sans. Varsha. He could cour drey his besh, he could fight in his time.
Bersh / Besh, s. A year. Sans. Varsha. He could carry his weight, he could fight in his time.
Bershor, pl. Years.
Bershor, pl. Years.
Besh, v. n. To sit: beshel, he sits.
Besh, v. n. To sit: beshel, he sits.
Beshaley / Beshly, Gypsy name of the Stanley tribe.
Beshaley / Beshly, the Gypsy name for the Stanley tribe.
Besh-engri, s. A chair. See Skammen.
Besh-engri, s. A chair. See Skammen.
Beti, a. Little, small.
Beti, a. Tiny, small.
Beval, s. Wind. See Bavol.
Beval, s. Wind. See Bavol.
Bi, prep. Without: bi luvvu, without money.
Bi, prep. Without: bi luvvu, no money.
Bicunyie, a. Alone, undone: meklis or mukalis bicunyie, let it alone.
Bicunyie, a. Alone, undone: meklis or mukalis bicunyie, leave it be.
Bikhin / Bin v. a. To sell. Hin. Bikna.
Bikhin / Bin v. a. To sell. Hin. Bikna.
Bikhnipen, s. Sale.
Bikhnipen, s. Sale.
Birk, s. Woman’s breast. See Bark.
Birk, s. Woman's breast. See Bark.
Bis, a. Twenty.
Bis, a. Twenty.
Bisheni, s. The ague.
Bisheni, s. The fever.
Bitch / Bitcha, v. a. To send. Sans. Bis, bisa.
Bitch / Bitcha, v. a. To send. Sans. Bis, bisa.
Bitched / Bitcheno, part. pass. Sent
Complained / Complained about, part. pass. Sent
Bitti, s. a. Small, piece, a little. This word is not true Gypsy.
Bitti, s. a. Small, piece, a little. This word isn't really Romani.
Bloen / Blowing, A cant word, but of Gypsy origin, signifying a sister in debauchery, as Pal denotes a brother in villainy. It is the Plani and Beluñi of the Spanish Gypsies, by whom sometimes Beluñi is made to signify queen; e.g. Beluñi de o tarpe (tem opré), the Queen of Heaven, the Virgin. Blower is used by Lord Byron, in his ‘Don Juan.’ Speaking of the highwayman whom the Don shoots in the vicinity of London, he says that he used to go to such-and-such places of public resort with—his blowen.
Bloen / Blowing, a slang term of Gypsy origin, means a sister in partying, just as Pal means a brother in crime. It corresponds to the Plani and Beluñi of the Spanish Gypsies, where sometimes Beluñi is used to mean queen; e.g. Beluñi de o tarpe (tem opré), the Queen of Heaven, the Virgin. Blower is mentioned by Lord Byron in his ‘Don Juan.’ Referring to the highwayman that the Don shoots near London, he notes that the highwayman used to go to certain public places with—his blowen.
Bob, s. A bean. Wal. Bob: pl. bobbis, bobs.
Bob, s. A bean. Wal. Bob: pl. bobbis, bobs.
Boccalo, a. Hungry: boccalé pers, hungry bellies.
Boccalo, a. Hungry: hungry bellies.
Bokht, s. Luck, fortune: kosko bokht, good luck. Sans. Bhãgya. Pers. Bakht.
Bokht, s. Luck, fortune: kosko bokht, good luck. Sans. Bhãgya. Pers. Bakht.
Bokra, s. A sheep. Hun. Birka.
Bokra, s. A sheep. Hun. Birka.
Bokra-choring. Sheep-stealing.
Bokra robbery. Sheep theft.
Bokkar-engro, s. A shepherd: bokkar-engro drey, the dude, man in the moon.
Bokkar-engro, s. A shepherd: bokkar-engro drey, the guy, man in the moon.
Bokkari-gueri, s. Shepherdess.
Bokkari-gueri, s. Shepherd.
Bokkeriskoe, a. Sheepish, belonging to a sheep: bokkeriskey piré, sheep’s feet.
Bokkeriskoe, a. Sheepish, related to a sheep: bokkeriskey piré, sheep's feet.
Bolla, v. a. To baptize.
Bolla, v. a. To baptize.
Bonnek, s. Hold: lel bonnek, to take hold.
Bonnek, s. Hold: lel bonnek, to take hold.
Booko, s. Liver. See Bucca.
Booko, s. Liver. See Bucca.
Bolleskoe divvus. Christmas-day; query, baptismal day. Wal. Botez (baptism).
Bolleskoe divvus. Christmas day; query, baptism day. Wal. Botez (baptism).
Bollimengreskoenaes. After the manner of a Christian.
Bollimengreskoenaes. After the style of a Christian.
Boogones, s. Smallpox, pimples. See Bugnior.
Boogones, s. Smallpox, pimples. See Bugnior.
Bor, s. A hedge.
Bor, s. A hedge.
Boona, a. Good. Lat. Bonus. Wal. Boun.
Boona, a. Good. Lat. Bonus. Wal. Boun.
Booty, s. Work.
Booty, s. Hustle.
Bori, a. fem. Big with child, enceinte.
Bori, a. fem. Pregnant.
Boro, a. Great, big. Hin. Bura. Mod. Gr. βαρὺς (heavy).
Boro, great, big. Hin. Bura. Mod. Gr. βαρὺς (heavy).
Borobeshemeskeguero, s. Judge, great-sitting-fellow.
Borobeshemeskeguero, s. Judge, great person.
Boro Gav. London, big city. See Lundra.
Borough of London, big city. See London.
Boronashemeskrutan. Epsom race-course.
Boronashemeskrutan. Epsom racetrack.
Bosh, s. Fiddle. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Bazee, baz (play, joke), whence the English cant word ‘bosh.’ See Bashadi.
Bosh, s. Fiddle. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Bazee, baz (play, joke), which is where the English slang term ‘bosh’ comes from. See Bashadi.
Boshomengro, s. Fiddler.
Fiddler.
Bosno / Boshno, s. A cock, male-bird. Sans. Puchchin. Wal. Bosh (testicle). Gaelic, Baois (libidinousness).
Bosno / Boshno, s. A rooster, male bird. Sans. Puchchin. Wal. Bosh (testicle). Gaelic, Baois (sexual desire).
Boshta, s. A saddle.
Boshta, s. A saddle.
Bostaris, s. A bastard.
Bostaris, s. A jerk.
Bovalo, a. Rich. Sans. Bala (strong).
Bovalo, a. Wealthy. Sans. Strong.
Bowle, s. Snail. See Baul.
Bowle, s. Snail. See Baul.
Brishen / Brisheno, s. Rain. Hun. Gyp. Breshino. Sans. Vrish. Mod. Gr. βρέξιμον.
Brishen / Brisheno, s. Rain. Hun. Gyp. Breshino. Sans. Vrish. Mod. Gr. βρέξιμον.
Brisheneskey, a. Rainy: brisheneskey rarde, a rainy night; brisheneskey chiros, a time of rain. Mod. Gr. καιρὸς βροχερός.
Brisheneskey, a. Rainy: brisheneskey rarde, a rainy night; brisheneskey chiros, a time of rain. Mod. Gr. καιρὸς βροχερός.
Bucca, s. Liver. Sans. Bucca (heart). Wal. Phikat.
Bucca, s. Liver. Sans. Bucca (heart). Wal. Phikat.
Bucca naflipen, s. Liver-complaint.
Bucca naflipen, s. Liver issue.
Buchee, s. Work, labour. See Butsi.
Buchee, s. Work, labor. See Butsi.
Buddigur, s. A shop. Span. Bodega.
Bodega.
Buddikur divvus, s. Shopping-day: Wednesday, Saturday.
Buddikur divvus, s. Shopping day: Wednesday, Saturday.
Bugnes / Bugnior, s. pl. Smallpox, blisters. Gael. Boc (a pimple), bolg (a blister), bolgach (small-pox). Wal. Mougour (a bud). Fr. Bourgeon.
Bugnes / Bugnior, s. pl. Smallpox, blisters. Gael. Boc (a pimple), bolg (a blister), bolgach (smallpox). Wal. Mougour (a bud). Fr. Bourgeon.
Buklo, a. Hungry: buklo tan, hungry spot, a common. Hun. Gyp. Buklo tan (a wilderness).
Buklo, a. Hungry: buklo tan, hungry spot, a common. Hun. Gyp. Buklo tan (a wilderness).
Bul, s. Rump, buttock.
Bul, s. Rump, butt.
Bungshoror / Bungyoror, s. pl. Corks.
Bungshoror / Bungyoror, s. pl. Corks.
Busnis / Busnior, s. pl. Spurs, prickles. Mod. Gr. βάσανοω (pain, torment).
Busnis / Busnior, s. pl. Spurs, prickles. Mod. Gr. βάσανοω (pain, torment).
Buroder, ad. More: ad. ne buroder, no more.
Buroder, ad. More: ad. no more.
Bute, a. ad. Much, very. Hin. Būt.
Bute, a. ad. Much, very. Hin. Būt.
Butying. Working.
Buying. Working.
C
Caen / Cane, v. n. To stink.
Caen / Cane, v. n. To smell bad.
Caenipen / Canipen, s. A stench.
Caenipen / Canipen, s. A foul smell.
Caeninaflipen, s. Stinking sickness, the plague, gaol-fever. The old cant word Canihen, signifying the gaol-fever, is derived from this Gypsy term.
Caeninaflipen, s. Stinking sickness, the plague, jail fever. The old slang word Canihen, meaning jail fever, comes from this Gypsy term.
Candelo / Cannelo, a. Stinking: cannelo mas, stinking meat. Sans. Gandha (smell).
Candelo / Cannelo, a. Stinking: cannelo mas, stinking meat. Sans. Gandha (smell).
Callico / Collico, s. To-morrow, also yesterday: collico sorlo, to-morrow morning. Sans. Kalya. Hin. Kal (to-morrow, yesterday).
Callico / Collico, s. Tomorrow, also yesterday: collico sorlo, tomorrow morning. Sans. Kalya. Hin. Kal (tomorrow, yesterday).
Cana, ad. Now: cana sig, now soon. See Kanau, knau.
Cana, ad. Now: cana sig, now soon. See Kanau, knau.
Cam, s. The sun. Hin. Khan. Heb. Khama (the sun), kham (heat).
Cam, s. The sun. Hin. Khan. Heb. Khama (the sun), kham (heat).
Cam. To wish, desire, love.
Want, desire, love.
Cam / Camello / Camo, v. a. To love. Sans. Cama (love). Cupid; from which Sanscrit word the Latin Amor is derived.
Cam / Camello / Camo, v. a. To love. Sans. Cama (love). Cupid; from which the Latin word Amor is derived.
Cambori / Cambri, a. Pregnant, big with child.
Cambori / Cambri, a. Pregnant, carrying a child.
Camlo / Caumlo, Lovel, name of a Gypsy tribe. Lit. amiable. With this word the English “comely” is connected.
Camlo / Caumlo, Lovel, name of a Gypsy tribe. Lit. amiable. This word is related to the English term “comely.”
Camo-mescro, s. A lover; likewise the name Lovel.
Camo-mescro, s. A lover; also known as Lovel.
Can, s. The sun.
Can, s. The sun.
Can, s. An ear. See Kaun.
Can, s. An ear. See Kaun.
Cana, ad. Now: cana sig, now soon. See Kanau.
Cana, ad. Now: cana sign, now soon. See Kanau.
Canáfi / Canapli, Turnip.
Canáfi / Canapli, Turnip.
Canairis. A Gypsy name.
Canairis. A Romani name.
Canior / Caunor, s. pl. Pease.
Canior / Caunor, n. pl. Peas.
Cannis. Hens.
Dogs. Chickens.
Cappi, s. Booty, gain, fortune: to lel cappi, to acquire booty, make a capital, a fortune.
Cappi, s. Booty, gain, fortune: to lel cappi, to acquire loot, make a capital, a fortune.
Cas, s. Hay: cas-stiggur, haystack; cas kairing, hay-making.
Cas, s. Hay: cas-stiggur, haystack; cas kairing, hay-making.
Cas, s. Cheese. Lat. Caseus. This word is used by the pikers or tramps, as well as by the Gypsies. See Kael.
Cas, s. Cheese. Lat. Caseus. This word is used by beggars or homeless people, as well as by the Gypsies. See Kael.
Catches / Catsau, s. pl. Scissors. Hun. Kasza. Wal. Kositsie (sickle). Mod. Gr. κόσα. Rus. Kosa.
Catches / Catsau, pl. Scissors. Hun. Kasza. Wal. Kositsie (sickle). Mod. Gr. κόσα. Rus. Kosa.
Cato, prep. To; more properly From. Hun. Gyp. Cado. Wal. Katre (towards).
Cato, prep. To; more accurately From. Hun. Gyp. Cado. Wal. Katre (towards).
Cavo, pron. dem. This.
This.
Cavocoi. This here.
Cavocoi. This right here.
Cavocoiskoenoes. In this manner.
Cavocoiskoenoes. This way.
Caur, v. a. To filch, steal in an artful manner by bending down. Heb. [Hebrew which cannot be reproduced] Cara, incurvavit se. Eng. Cower.
Caur, v. a. To sneakily steal by bending down. Heb. [Hebrew which cannot be reproduced] Cara, bent down. Eng. Cower.
Cayes, s. Silk. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Span. Gyp. Quequesa. Sans. Kauseya.
Cayes, s. Silk. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Span. Gyp. Quequesa. Sans. Kauseya.
Chal, s. Lad, boy, son, fellow. Connected with this word is the Scottish Chiel, the Old English Childe, and the Russian Chelovik. See Romani chal.
Chal, s. Lad, boy, son, dude. Connected with this word is the Scottish Chiel, the Old English Childe, and the Russian Chelovik. See Romani chal.
Cháro, s. Plate, dish.
Cháro, s. Plate, dish.
Chavali, s.f. Girl, damsel.
Chavali, s.f. Girl, maiden.
Chavi, s.f. Child, girl, daughter.
Chavi, s.f. Child, girl, daughter.
Cham, s. Leather: chameskie rokunies, leather breeches. Sans. Charma (skin).
Cham, s. Leather: chameskie rokunies, leather breeches. Sans. Charma (skin).
Chavo, s. m. Child, son: pl. chaves. Cheaus is an old French hunting term for the young ones of a fox.
Chavo, s. m. Child, son: pl. chaves. Cheaus is an old French hunting term for the young of a fox.
Charos / Cheros, s. Heaven. Wal. Cher.
Charos / Cheros, s. Heaven. Wal. Cher.
Chauvo, s. See Chavo.
Chauvo, s. See Chavo.
Chaw, s. Grass.
Grass.
Chawhoktamengro, s. Grasshopper. See Hokta.
Chawhoktamengro, s. Grasshopper. See Hokta.
Chee, a. No, none: chee butsi, no work. See Chi, chichi.
Chee, a. No, none: chee butsi, no work. See Chi, chichi.
Chiricleskey tan, s. Aviary, birdcage.
Chiricleskey tan, s. Aviary, birdcage.
Chi, s.f. Child, daughter, girl: Romany chi, Gypsy girl.
Chi, s.f. Child, daughter, girl: Romany chi, Gypsy girl.
Chi / Chichi / Chiti, s. Nothing.
Chi / Chichi / Chiti, s. Nothing.
Chin, v. a. To cut: chin lis tuley, cut it down. Sans. Chun (to cut off). Hin. Chink. Gaelic, Sgian (a knife).
Chin, v. a. To cut: chin lis tuley, cut it down. Sans. Chun (to cut off). Hin. Chink. Gaelic, Sgian (a knife).
Chin the cost. To cut the stick; to cut skewers for butchers and pegs for linen-lines, a grand employment of the Gypsy fellows in the neighbourhood of London.
Chin the cost. To cut the stick; to make skewers for butchers and pegs for drying laundry, a big job for the Gypsy guys in the area around London.
China-mengri, s.f. A letter; a thing incised, marked, written in.
China-mengri, s.f. A letter; something that is engraved, marked, or written in.
China-mengro, s. Hatchet. Lit. cutting-thing.
China-mengro, s. Hatchet. Lit. cutting tool.
Chinipen, s. A cut.
Chinipen, s. A cut.
Ching / Chingaro, v. a. To fight, quarrel.
Ching / Chingaro, v. a. To fight or argue.
Chinga-guero, s. A warrior.
Chinga-guero, s. A fighter.
Chingaripen, s. War, strife. Sans. Sangara.
Chingaripen, s. War, conflict. Sans. Sangara.
Chingring, part. pres. Fighting, quarrelling.
Chingring, present participle Fighting, arguing.
Chik, s. Earth, dirt. Span. Gyp. Chique. Hin. Chikkar.
Chik, s. Earth, dirt. Span. Gyp. Chique. Hin. Chikkar.
Chiklo, a. Dirty.
Chiklo, a. Messy.
Chiriclo, s. m. Bird. Hin. Chiriya.
Chiriclo, s. m. Bird. Hin. Chiriya.
Chiricli, s.f. Hen-bird.
Chiricli, s.f. Hen bird.
Chiros, s. Time. Mod. Gr. καιρὸς.
Chiros, s. Time. Mod. Gr. καιρὸς.
Chiv / Chiva / Chuva, v. a. To cast, fling, throw, place, put: chiv lis tuley, fling it down; chiv oprey, put up. Rus. Kyio (to forge, cast iron). Sans. Kship.
Chiv / Chiva / Chuva, v. a. To throw, toss, place, set: chiv lis tuley, throw it down; chiv oprey, put it up. Rus. Kyio (to forge, cast iron). Sans. Kship.
Chiving tulipen prey the chokkars. Greasing the shoes.
Chiving tulipen prey the chokkars. Greasing the shoes.
Chofa, s.f. Petticoat.
Chofa, s.f. Skirt.
Chohawni, s. Witch. See Chovahano.
Chohawni, s. Witch. See Chovahano.
Chohawno, s. Wizard.
Chohawno, s. Wizard.
Chok, s. Watch, watching.
Chok, s. Watch, viewing.
Chok-engro, s. Watchman.
Chok-engro, s. Guard.
Chok, s. Shoe: chokkor, chokkors, shoes. Hun. Czókó (wooden shoe).
Chok, s. Shoe: chokkor, chokkors, shoes. Hun. Czókó (wooden shoe).
Choka, s. Coat.
Choka, s. Coat.
Chokni / Chukni, s. Whip. Wal. Chokini (a strap, leather). Hun. Csakany (a mace, sledge hammer). Hun. Gyp. Chokano (a staff). Wal. Chokan, chokinel (a hammer).
Chokni / Chukni, s. Whip. Wal. Chokini (a strap, leather). Hun. Csakany (a mace, sledge hammer). Hun. Gyp. Chokano (a staff). Wal. Chokan, chokinel (a hammer).
Chukni wast, s. The whip-hand, the mastery.
Lead, s. The whip-hand, the mastery.
Chollo, a. s. Whole.
Chollo, a. s. Whole.
Chomany, s. Something. Span. Gyp. Cormuñi (some); chimoni (anything). Wal. Chineba (some one). For every chomany there’s a lav in Romany: there’s a name in Gypsy for everything.
Chomany, s. Something. Span. Gyp. Cormuñi (some); chimoni (anything). Wal. Chineba (someone). For every chomany, there's a lav in Romany: there’s a name in Gypsy for everything.
Chong, s. Knee. Hun. Czomb. Sans. Chanu. Lat. Genu.
Chong, s. Knee. Hun. Czomb. Sans. Chanu. Lat. Genu.
Chongor, pl. Knees.
Chongor, pl. Knees.
Choom / Choomava, v. a. To kiss. Sans. Chumb. Choomande, kiss me. Span. Gyp. Chupendi (a kiss), a corruption of Choomande.
Choom / Choomava, v. a. To kiss. Sans. Chumb. Choomande, kiss me. Span. Gyp. Chupendi (a kiss), a variation of Choomande.
Choomia, s. A kiss.
Choomia, s. A kiss.
Choomo-mengro, one of the tribe Boswell.
Choomo-mengro, a member of the Boswell tribe.
Choon, s. Moon. Hun. Gyp. Chemut. Sans. Chandra.
Choon, s. Moon. Hun. Gyp. Chemut. Sans. Chandra.
Choot, s. Vinegar. See Chute.
Choot, s. Vinegar. See Chute.
Chore, v. a. To steal. Sans. Chur.
Chore, v. a. To steal. Sans. Chur.
Chore, s. Thief. Hin. Chor.
Chore, s. Thief. Hin. Chor.
Chories, pl. Thieves.
Chories, pl. Thieves.
Chor-dudee-mengri, s. Κλεφτοφάναρον (thieves’ lantern, dark lantern).
Chor-dudee-mengri, s. Κλεφτοφάναρον (thieves' lantern, dark lantern).
Choredo, a. Poor, poverty stricken. Sans. Dāridra.
Choredo, a. Poor, in poverty. Sans. Dāridra.
Choredi, fem. of Choredo.
Choredi, female of Choredo.
Choriness, s. Poverty.
Choriness, s. Lack of money.
Choro, a. Poor. Span. Gyp. Chororo. Hin. Shor.
Choro, a. Poor. Span. Gyp. Chororo. Hin. Shor.
Chovahan, v. a. To bewitch.
Chovahan, v. a. To cast a spell.
Chovahani / Chowián, s.f. Witch.
Chovahani / Chowián, s.f. Witch.
Chovahano, s. Wizard.
Chovahano, s. Wizard.
Choveni, fem. of Choveno.
Choveni, female of Choveno.
Choveno ker, s. Workhouse, poorhouse.
Choveno ker, s. Workhouse, homeless shelter.
Chukkal, s. Dog. Span. Gyp. Chuquel. Sans. Kukkura. Basque, Chacurra. See Juggal.
Chukkal, s. Dog. Span. Gyp. Chuquel. Sans. Kukkura. Basque, Chacurra. See Juggal.
Chumba, s. Bank, hill. Russ. Xolm (a hill).
Chumba, s. Bank, hill. Russ. Xolm (a hill).
Chungarava / Chungra, v. a. To spit. Wal. Ckouina. Hun. Gyp. Chudel (he spits).
Chungarava / Chungra, v. a. To spit. Wal. Ckouina. Hun. Gyp. Chudel (he spits).
Churi, s. Knife. Sans. Chhuri. Hin. Churi.
Churi, s. Knife. Sans. Chhuri. Hin. Churi.
Churi-mengro, s. Knife-grinder, cutler.
Knife grinder, cutler.
Churo-mengro, s. A soldier, swordsman.
Churo-mengro, s. A soldier, swordsman.
Chute, s. Vinegar. Mod. Gr. ζύδι. Wal. Otset.
Chute, s. Vinegar. Mod. Gr. ζύδι. Wal. Otset.
Chute-pavi, s. Cyder; perhaps a crab-apple. Lit. vinegar-apple.
Chute-pavi, s. Cider; maybe a crab-apple. Literally, vinegar-apple.
Chuvvenhan, s. Witch. See Chovahani.
Chuvvenhan, s. Witch. See Chovahani.
Cinerella. Female Gypsy name.
Cinderella. Female Gypsy name.
Cocal, s. Bone. Mod. Gr. κοκκαλον,
Cocal, s. Bone. Mod. Gr. κοκκαλον,
Cocalor, pl. Bones.
Cocalor, pl. Bones.
Coco / Cocodus, s. Uncle. Hin. Caucau.
Coco / Cocodus, s. Uncle. Hin. Caucau.
Cocoro / Cocoros, a. pro. Alone, self: tu cocoro, thyself.
Cocoro / Cocoros, a. pro. Alone, self: your cocoro, yourself.
Coin, pro. interrog. Who? Hin. Kaun.
Coin, pro. interrog. Who? Hin. Who?
Collor, s. pl. Shillings: dui collor a crookos, two shillings a week. In Spanish Germania or cant, two ochavos, or farthings, are called: dui calés.
Collor, s. pl. Shillings: dui collor a crookos, two shillings a week. In Spanish slang or informal terms, two ochavos, or farthings, are called: dui calés.
Comorrus, s. A room, hall. Hun. Kamara. Hin. Cumra. Ger. Kammer.
Comorrus, s. A room, hall. Hun. Kamara. Hin. Cumra. Ger. Kammer.
Cong, congl, v. a. To comb.
Cong, congl, v. a. To comb.
Congli / Congro, s.f. A comb. Sans. Kanagata.
Congli / Congro, s.f. A comb. Sans. Kanagata.
Congri, s.f. A church.
Congri, s.f. A church building.
Coor / Coorava, v. a. To fight. Irish, Comhrac [courac]. Welsh, Curaw (to beat).
Coor / Coorava, v. a. To fight. Irish, Comhrac [courac]. Welsh, Curaw (to beat).
Cooroboshno, s. A fighting cock.
Cooroboshno, s. A fighting rooster.
Cooromengro, s. Fighter, boxer, soldier.
Cooromengro, s. Fighter, boxer, soldier.
Coppur, s. Blanket. Rus. Kovér (a carpet). Wal. Kovor, id.
Coppur, s. Blanket. Rus. Kover (a carpet). Wal. Kovor, id.
Corauni / Corooni, s. A crown: mekrauliskie corauni, royal crown. Wal. Coroan.
Corauni / Corooni, s. A crown: mekrauliskie corauni, royal crown. Wal. Coroan.
Cori, s. Thorn. Membrum virile. Span. Carajo [caraco]. Gascon, Quirogau.
Cori, s. Thorn. Penis. Span. Carajo [caraco]. Gascon, Quirogau.
Coro / Coru, s. Pot, pitcher, cup: coru levinor, cup of ale; boro coro, a quart. Span. Gyp. Coro. Hin. Gharã.
Coro / Coru, s. Pot, pitcher, cup: coru levinor, cup of ale; boro coro, a quart. Span. Gyp. Coro. Hin. Gharã.
Coro-mengro, s. Potter.
Coro-mengro, s. Potter.
Coro-mengreskey tem. Staffordshire.
Coro-mengreskey theme. Staffordshire.
Corredo, a. Blind. Span. Gyp. Corroro. Pers. کور Wal. Kior (one-eyed).
Corredo, a. Blind. Span. Gyp. Corroro. Pers. کور Wal. Kior (one-eyed).
Cosht / Cost, s. Stick. Sans. Kāshtha.
Cost, s. Stick. Sans. Kāshtha.
Cost-engres, s. pl. Branch-fellows, people of the New Forest, Stanleys.
Cost-engres, s. pl. Branch-fellows, people of the New Forest, Stanleys.
Coshtno, a. Wooden.
Coshtno, a. Wood.
Covar / Covo, s. Thing: covars, things; covar-bikhning-vardo, a caravan in which goods are carried about for sale.
Covar / Covo, s. Thing: covars, things; covar-bikhning-vardo, a caravan that carries goods for sale.
Crafni, s. Button. Ger. Knopf.
Crafni, s. Button. Ger. Knopf.
Crafni-mengro, s. Buttonmaker.
Crafni-mengro, s. Button maker.
Creeor, s. pl. Ants, pismires. Span. Gyp. Ocrianse (the ant), quiria (ant).
Creeor, s. pl. Ants, pismires. Span. Gyp. Ocrianse (the ant), quiria (ant).
Cricni / Crookey / Crookauros / Crookos, s. Week. See Curco.
Cricni / Crookey / Crookauros / Crookos, s. Week. See Curco.
Cuesni, s. Basket. See Cushnee.
Cuesni, s. Basket. See Cushnee.
Culvato (Gypsy name). Claude.
Culvato (Romani name). Claude.
Curaken, s. Fighting. See Coorapen.
Curaken, s. Fighting. See Coorapen.
Curepen, s. Trouble, affliction: curepenis, afflictions.
Curepen, s. Trouble, affliction: curepenis, afflictions.
Curkey / Curko, s. Week, Sunday. Mod. Gr. κυριακὴ.
Curkey / Curko, s. Week, Sunday. Mod. Gr. κυριακὴ.
Curlo-mengri, s. A ruff, likewise a pillow; anything belonging to the throat or neck.
Curlo-mengri, s. A ruff, also a pillow; anything related to the throat or neck.
Cushnee / Cushni / Cusnee, s. Basket. Wal. Koshnitse.
Cushnee / Cushni / Cusnee, s. Basket. Wal. Koshnitse.
Cuttor, s. A piece, a guinea-piece: dui cuttor, two guineas; will you lel a cuttor, will you take a bit? sore in cuttors, all in rags.
Cuttor, s. A coin, a guinea: dui cuttor, two guineas; will you lend a cuttor, will you take a piece? sore in cuttors, all in rags.
D
Dad, s. Father. Welsh, Tâd. Wal. Tat. Rus. Gyp. Dad.
Dad, s. Father. Welsh, Tâd. Wal. Tat. Rus. Gyp. Dad.
Dado, s. Father. Rus. Gyp. Dado.
Dado, s. Father. Rus. Gyp. Dado.
Dand, s. Tooth. Sans. Danta.
Dand, s. Tooth. Sans. Danta.
Danior, pl. Teeth.
Danior, pl. Teeth.
Dand, v. a. To bite.
Dand, v. a. To bite.
Daya / Dieya, s. Mother, properly nurse. Sans. Dhayas (fostering). Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Daya. Mod. Gr. θεῖα. Rus. Gyp. Daia. Wal. Doika.
Daya / Dieya, s. Mother, proper nurse. Sans. Dhayas (fostering). Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Daya. Mod. Gr. θεῖα. Rus. Gyp. Daia. Wal. Doika.
Deav, v. a. Give. Sans. Dā. Wal. Da.
Deav, v. a. Give. None. Dā. Wal. Da.
Del. He gives.
Del. He donates.
Del-engro, s. A kicking-horse.
Del-engro, s. A kicker.
Del-oprey, v. a. To read.
Del-oprey, v. a. To read.
Denne, ad. Than.
Denne, ad. Than.
Der. An affix, by which the comparative is formed; e.g. Wafodu, bad: wafodúder than dovor, worse than they.
Der. An affix used to form the comparative; e.g. Wafodu, bad: wafodúder than dovor, worse than they.
Desch, a. Ten. Sans. Dasan. Wal. Zetche.
Desch, a. Ten. Sans. Dasan. Wal. Zetche.
Desh ta yeck. Eleven.
Desh ta yeck. Eleven.
Desh ta dui. Twelve.
Twelve.
Desh ta trin. Thirteen.
Desh ta trin. Thirteen.
Desh ta store. Fourteen.
Desh the store. Fourteen.
Desh ta pansch. Fifteen.
Desh ta pansch. Fifteen.
Desh ta sho. Sixteen.
Desh is 16.
Desh ta eft. Seventeen.
Desh ta eft. Seventeen.
Devel, s. God. Sans. Deva. Lith. Dēwas. Lat. Deus. See Dibble, Dovvel, Dubbel.
Devel, s. God. Sans. Deva. Lith. Dēwas. Lat. Deus. See Dibble, Dovvel, Dubbel.
Develeskoe, s. Holy, divine. Sans. Deva.
Develeskoe, s. Holy, divine. Sans. Deva.
Deyed, pret. of Deav. He gave.
Died, pret. of Deav. He gave.
Dibble, s. God. See Devel.
Dibble, s. God. See Devil.
Dic / Dico, v. n. To look: dic tuley, look down; dicking misto, looking well. Sans. Iksh (to see, look). Gaelic, Dearcam (to see); dearc (eye).
Dic / Dico, v. n. To look: dic tuley, look down; dicking misto, looking good. Sans. Iksh (to see, look). Gaelic, Dearcam (to see); dearc (eye).
Dickimengro, s. Overlooker, overseer.
Dickimengro, s. Supervisor.
Dicking hev, s. A window, seeing-hole.
Dicking hev, s. A window, viewing hole.
Die, s. Mother. Rus. Gyp. Die. See Daya.
Die, Mom. Die. See Daya.
Dikkipen, s. Look, image. Sans. Driksha (aspect). Welsh, Drych (aspect).
Dikkipen, s. Look, image. Sans. Driksha (aspect). Welsh, Drych (aspect).
Diklo, s. Cloth, sheet, shift.
Diklo, s. Cloth, sheet, dress.
Dinnelo, s. A fool, one possessed by the devil. Wal. Diniele (of the devil); louat diniele (possessed by the devil).
Dinnelo, s. A fool, someone controlled by the devil. Wal. Diniele (of the devil); louat diniele (possessed by the devil).
Dinneleskoe, a. Foolish.
Dinneleskoe, a. Silly.
Dinneleskoenoes. Like a fool.
Dinneleskoenoes. Like an idiot.
Dinnelipénes, s. pl. Follies, nonsense.
Dinnelipénes, s. pl. Follies, nonsense.
Diverous. A Gypsy name.
Diverous. A Romani name.
Diviou, a. Mad: jawing diviou, going mad. Sans. Déva (a god, a fool).
Diviou, a. Mad: talking nonsense, going crazy. Sans. Déva (a god, a fool).
Diviou-ker, s. Madhouse.
Diviou-ker, s. Insane asylum.
Diviou kokkodus Artáros. Mad Uncle Arthur.
Diviou kokkodus Artáros. Mad Uncle Arthur.
Divvus, s. Day. Sans. Divasa.
Divvus, s. Day. Sans. Divasa.
Divveskoe / Divvuskoe, a. Daily: divvuskoe morro, daily bread.
Divveskoe / Divvuskoe, a. Daily: divvuskoe morro, daily bread.
Diximengro, s. Overseer. See Dickimengro.
Diximengro, s. Overseer. See Dickimengro.
Dook, v. a. To hurt, bewitch: dook the gry, bewitch the horse. Wal. Deokira (to fascinate, bewitch). See Duke, dukker.
Dook, v. a. To hurt, enchant: dook the gry, enchant the horse. Wal. Deokira (to fascinate, enchant). See Duke, dukker.
Dooriya / Dooya, s. Sea. Pers. دریا Irish, Deire (the deep). Welsh, Dwr (water). Old Irish, Dobhar.
Dooriya / Dooya, s. Sea. Pers. دریا Irish, Deire (the deep). Welsh, Dwr (water). Old Irish, Dobhar.
Dooriya durril, s. Currant, plum. Lit. Sea-berry.
Currant, plum. Sea-berry.
Dori, s. Thread, lace: kaulo dori, black lace. Hin. Dora.
Dori, s. Thread, lace: kaulo dori, black lace. Hin. Dora.
Dosch / Dosh, s. Evil, harm: kek dosh, no harm. Sans. Dush (bad).
Dosch / Dosh, s. Evil, harm: kek dosh, no harm. Sans. Dush (bad).
Dosta, s. Enough. Wal. Destoul. Rus. Dostaet (it is sufficient). See Dusta.
Dosta, s. Enough. Wal. Destoul. Rus. Dostaet (it is sufficient). See Dusta.
Dou, imp. Give: dou mande, give me. See Deav.
Dou, imp. Give: dou mande, give me. See Deav.
Dou dass. Cup and saucer. See Dui das.
Dou dass. Cup and saucer. See Dui das.
Dovo, pro. dem. That: dovó si, that’s it.
Dovo, pro. dem. That's it.
Dovor. Those, they: wafodúder than dovor, worse than they.
Dovor. Those, they: they are more harmful than dovor, worse than them.
Dov-odoy / Dovoy-oduvva, ad. Yonder.
Dov-odoy / Dovoy-oduvva, ad. Over there.
Dov-odoyskoenaes. In that manner.
Dov-odoyskoenaes. In that way.
Doovel, s. God. See Duvvel.
Doovel, s. God. See Duvvel.
Drab / Drav, s. Medicine, poison. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Daru. Wal. Otrav.
Drab / Drav, s. Medicine, poison. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Daru. Wal. Otrav.
Drab-engro / Drav-engro, s. A pothecary, poison-monger.
Drab-engro / Drav-engro, s. A apothecary, poison dealer.
Drab, v. a. To poison. Wal. Otribi.
Drab, v. a. To poison. Wal. Otribi.
Drey, prep. In.
Drey, prep. In.
Dubble, s. God: my dearie Dubbleskey, for my dear God’s sake.
Dubble, s. God: my dear Dubbleskey, for my dear God’s sake.
Dude, s. The moon.
Dude, it's the moon.
Dudee, s. A light, a star. Sans. Dyuti.
Dudee, s. A light, a star. Sans. Dyuti.
Dude-bar, s. Diamond, light-stone.
Dude bar, s. Diamond, gem.
Drom, s. Road. Wal. Drom. Mod. Gr. δρόμος.
Drom, s. Road. Wal. Drom. Mod. Gr. δρόμος.
Drom-luring, s. Highway robbery.
Drom-luring, s. Highway robbery.
Dui, a. Two.
Dui, a. Two.
Duito, s. Second.
Duito, s. 2nd.
Duito divvus, s. Tuesday. Lit. Second day.
Duito divvus, s. Tuesday. Lit. Second day.
Dui das / Dui tas, s. Cup and saucer.
Dui das / Dui tas, s. Cup and saucer.
Duke, v. a. To hurt, bewitch. Sans. Duhkha (pain). Heb. Dui (languor, deadly faintness).
Duke, v. a. To harm, enchant. Sans. Duhkha (suffering). Heb. Dui (weakness, lethal exhaustion).
Dukker, v. a. To bewitch, tell fortunes. Wal. Deokiea (to fascinate, enchant).
Dukker, v. a. To bewitch, tell fortunes. Wal. Deokiea (to fascinate, enchant).
Dukkering, s. Fortune-telling. Wal. Deokiere (fascination). Mod. Gr. τύχη (fortune).
Dukkering, s. Fortune-telling. Wal. Deokiere (fascination). Mod. Gr. τύχη (fortune).
Dukkipen, s. Fortune-telling.
Dukkipen, s. Fortune-telling.
Dukker, v. n. To ache: my sherro dukkers, my head aches. See Duke, dukker.
Dukker, v. n. To ache: my head hurts, my head aches. See Duke, dukker.
Dum / Dumo, s. Black. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] (tail).
Dum / Dumo, s. Black. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] (tail).
Dur, ad. Far. Sans. Dur. Pers. دور
Dur, ad. Far. Sans. Dur. Pers. دور
Dur-dicki mengri, s. Telescope. Lit. far-seeing-thing.
Telescope. Lit. far-seeing thing.
Durro, ad. Far.
Durro, ad. Distantly.
Durro-der, ad. Farther.
Durro-der, ad. Further.
Durriken, s. Fortune-telling.
Durriken, s. Tarot reading.
Durril, s. Any kind of berry, a gooseberry in particular.
Durril, s. Any type of berry, especially a gooseberry.
Durrilau / Durilyor, pl. Berries.
Durrilau / Durilyor, pl. Berries.
Durrileskie guyi, s. Gooseberry pudding.
Gooseberry pudding.
Dusta, a. s. Enough, plenty: dusta foky, plenty of people. See Dosta.
Dusta, a. s. Enough, plenty: dusta foky, a lot of people. See Dosta.
Duvvel, s. God.
Duvvel, s. God.
E
Eange, s. Itch.
Eange, s. Itch.
Ebyok, s. The sea. Sans. Aapa (water). Wal. Ape.
Ebyok, s. The ocean. Sans. Aapa (water). Wal. Ape.
Eft, a. Seven. Few of the English Gypsies are acquainted with this word; consequently, the generality, when they wish to express the number seven, without being understood by the Gorgios or Gentiles, say Dui trins ta yeck, two threes and one.
Eft, a. Seven. Not many English Gypsies know this word; as a result, most of them, when they want to say the number seven without being understood by the Gorgios or Gentiles, say Dui trins ta yeck, two threes and one.
En. A kind of genitive particle used in compound words, being placed between a noun and the particle ‘gro’ or ‘guero,’ which signifies a possessor, or that which governs a thing or has to do with it: e.g. lav-en-gro, a linguist or man of words, lit. word-of-fellow; wesh-en-gro, a forester, or one who governs the wood; p. 31gurush-en-gre, things costing a groat, lit. groat-of-things.
En. A type of genitive particle used in compound words, placed between a noun and the particle ‘gro’ or ‘guero,’ which indicates possession or relates to something: e.g. lav-en-gro, a linguist or man of words, literally word-of-fellow; wesh-en-gro, a forester, or one who governs the wood; p. 31gurush-en-gre, things costing a groat, literally groat-of-things.
Engri. A neuter affix, composed of the particles ‘en’ and ‘gro,’ much used in the formation of figurative terms for things for which there are no positive names in English Gypsy: for example, yag-engri, a fire-thing, which denotes a gun; poggra-mengri, a breaking-thing or mill; ‘engri’ is changed into ‘mengri’ when the preceding word terminates in a vowel.
Engri. A neuter affix made up of the parts ‘en’ and ‘gro,’ widely used to create figurative terms for things that don't have specific names in English Gypsy. For instance, yag-engri means a fire-thing, which refers to a gun; poggra-mengri means a breaking-thing or mill. The term ‘engri’ changes to ‘mengri’ when the preceding word ends in a vowel.
Engro. A masculine affix, used in the formation of figurative names; for example, kaun-engro, an ear-fellow, or creature with ears, serving to denote a hare; ruk-engro, or ruko-mengro, a tree-fellow, denoting a squirrel; it is also occasionally used in names for inanimate objects, as pov-engro, an earth-thing or potato. See Guero.
Engro. A masculine suffix, used in creating figurative names; for instance, kaun-engro, an ear-fellow, or a creature with ears, referring to a hare; ruk-engro, or ruko-mengro, a tree-fellow, referring to a squirrel; it is also sometimes used in names for inanimate objects, like pov-engro, an earth-thing or potato. See Guero.
Escunyo, s. A wooden skewer, a pin. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Escunyo, s. A wooden skewer, a pin. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Escunyes, pl. Skewers.
Skewers.
Escunye-mengro, s. A maker of skewers.
Skewer maker
Eskoe, fem. Eskie. A particle which affixed to a noun turns it into an adjective: e.g. Duvel, God; duveleskoe, divine. It seems to be derived from the Wal. Esk, Easkie.
Eskoe, fem. Eskie. A particle that, when added to a noun, transforms it into an adjective: e.g. Duvel, God; duveleskoe, divine. It appears to come from the Wal. Esk, Easkie.
Eskey. An affix or postposition, signifying, for the sake of: e.g. Mi-dubble-eskey, for God’s sake.
Eskey. An affix or postposition, meaning, for the sake of: e.g. Mi-dubble-eskey, for God’s sake.
Ever-komi, ad. Evermore.
Evermore.
F
Fake, v. a. To work, in a dishonest sense; to steal, pick pockets.
Fake, v. a. To act dishonestly; to steal or pickpocket.
Fashono, a. False, fashioned, made up. Wal. Fatche (to make); fatze (face, surface).
Fashono, a. False, designed, created. Wal. Fatche (to create); fatze (face, surface).
Fashono wangustis. Pretended gold rings, made in reality of brass or copper.
Faux gold rings, actually made of brass or copper.
Fashono wangust engre. Makers of false rings.
Fashono wangust engre. Makers of fake rings.
Fenella. A female Gypsy name.
Fenella. A Romani female name.
Ferreder, a. Better, more. Gaelic, Feairde.
Ferreder, a. Better, more. Gaelic, Feairde.
Fetér, ad. Better. Pers. بهتر Span. Gyp. Fetér.
Fetér, ad. Better. Pers. بهتر Span. Gyp. Fetér.
Figis, s. Fig.
Figis, n. Fig.
Figis-rookh, s. Fig-tree.
Fig-tree.
Filisen, s. Country-seat.
Filisen, s. Country home.
Fino, a. Fine. This word is not pure Gypsy: fino covar, a fine thing.
Fino, a. Fine. This word isn't purely Gypsy: fino covar, a fine thing.
Floure, s. Flower; a female Gypsy name.
Floure, s. Flower; a female Romani name.
Fordel, v. a. Forgive; generally used for Artav, or Artavello, q.v., and composed of the English ‘for’ and the Gypsy ‘del.’
Fordel, v. a. Forgive; usually used for Artav, or Artavello, q.v., and made up of the English ‘for’ and the Gypsy ‘del.’
Fordias / Fordios, part. pass. Forgiven.
Fordias / Fordios, past participle. Forgiven.
Foros, s. City. See Vauros.
Foros, s. City. See Vauros.
Ful, s. Dung: ful-vardo, muck cart.
Ful, s. Dung: ful-vardo, manure cart.
Fuzyanri, s. Fern. Hun. Füz (willow), fácska (a shrub), füszár (a stem).
Fuzyanri, s. Fern. Hun. Füz (willow), fácska (a shrub), füszár (a stem).
G
Gad, s. A shirt: pauno gad, a clean shirt.
Gad!, s. A shirt: pauno gad, a clean shirt.
Gare, v. n., v. a. To take care, beware; to hide, conceal. Sans. Ghar, to cover.
Gare, v. n., v. a. To take care, be cautious; to hide, conceal. Sans. Ghar, to cover.
Garridan. You hid: luvvu sor garridan, the money which you hid.
Garridan. You hid: love you so Garridan, the money that you hid.
Garrivava, v. a. I hide or shall hide, take care: to gare his nangipen, to hide his nakedness.
Garrivava, v. a. I hide or will hide, take care: to cover his nakedness, to hide his exposure.
Gav, s. A town, village. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Gav, s. A town or village. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Gav-engro, s. A constable, village officer, beadle, citizen.
Gav-engro, s. A police officer, community member, town official, citizen.
Gillies. Songs. Sometimes used to denote newspapers; because these last serve, as songs did in the old time, to give the world information of remarkable events, such as battles, murders, and robberies.
Gillies. Songs. Sometimes used to mean newspapers; because these serve, like songs did in the past, to inform the world about notable events, such as battles, murders, and robberies.
Gilyava. I sing, or shall sing. Hin. Guywuya. Mod. Gr. κοιλαδῶ.
Gilyava. I sing, or will sing. Hin. Guywuya. Mod. Gr. κοιλαδῶ.
Gin, v. a. To count, reckon. Sans. Gan. Hin. Ginna.
Gin, v. a. To count, reckon. Sans. Gan. Hin. Ginna.
Ginnipen, s. A reckoning.
Ginnipen, s. A reckoning.
Giv, s. Wheat. Sans. Yava (barley). See Jobis.
Giv, s. Wheat. Sans. Barley. See Jobis.
Giv-engro, s. Wheat-fellow, figurative name for farmer.
Giv-engro, s. Wheat buddy, figurative name for farmer.
Giv-engro ker, s. Farmhouse.
Giv-engro ker, s. Farmhouse.
Giv-engro puv, s. Farm.
Giv-engro pub, s. Farm.
Godli, s. A warrant, perhaps hue and cry. See Gudlie. Span. Gyp. Gola (order).
Godli, s. A warrant, maybe a hue and cry. See Gudlie. Span. Gyp. Gola (order).
Gono, s. A sack. Hin. Gon.
Gono, s. A bag. Hin. Gon.
Gorgio, s. A Gentile, a person who is not a Gypsy; one who lives in a house and not in a tent. It is a modification of the Persian word [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Cojia, which signifies a gentleman, a doctor, a merchant, etc. Span. Gyp. Gacho.
Gorgio, s. A Gentile, someone who is not a Gypsy; a person who lives in a house instead of a tent. It comes from the Persian word [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Cojia, which means a gentleman, a doctor, a merchant, and so on. Span. Gyp. Gacho.
Gorgiken rat. Of Gentile blood.
Gorgiken rat. Of Gentile descent.
Gorgie, s. A female Gentile or Englishwoman.
Gorgie, s. A non-Jewish woman or Englishwoman.
Gorgikonaes, ad. After the manner of the Gentiles.
Gorgikonaes, ad. In the way of the Gentiles.
Gooee, s. Pudding. See Guyi.
Gooee, s. Pudding. See Guyi.
Gran, s. A barn: I sov’d yeck rarde drey a gran, I slept one night within a barn (Gypsy song).
Gran, s. A barn: I slept one night in a barn (Gypsy song).
Gran-wuddur, s. A barn door.
Gran-wuddur, s. A barn door.
Gran-wuddur-chiriclo. Barn-door fowl.
Gran-wuddur-chiriclo. Barn door chicken.
Grasni / Grasnakkur, s. Mare, outrageous woman: what a grasni shan tu, what a mare you are! Grasnakkur is sometimes applied to the mayor of a town.
Grasni / Grasnakkur, s. Mare, outrageous woman: what a grasni shan tu, what a mare you are! Grasnakkur is sometimes used to refer to the mayor of a town.
Grestur / Gristur, s. A horse. Span. Gyp. Gras, graste.
Grestur / Gristur, s. A horse. Span. Gyp. Grass, grazed.
Gry, s. A horse. Sans. Kharu. Hin. Ghora. Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Greadh.
Gry, s. A horse. Sans. Kharu. Hin. Ghora. Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Greadh.
Gry-engro, s. Horse-dealer.
Horse dealer.
Gry-nashing. Horse-racing.
Grindr. Horse racing.
Gudlee / Godli, s. Cry, noise, shout. Hin. Ghooloo. Irish, Gúl. Rus. Gyl=gool (shout); Gólos (voice).
Gudlee / Godli, s. Cry, noise, shout. Hin. Ghooloo. Irish, Gúl. Rus. Gyl=gool (shout); Gólos (voice).
Grommena / Grovena / Grubbena, s. and v. Thunder, to thunder. Sans. Garjana. Rus. Groin (thunder). Heb. Ream, raemah. Gaelic, Gairm (a cry).
Grommena / Grovena / Grubbena, s. and v. Thunder, to thunder. Sans. Garjana. Rus. Groin (thunder). Heb. Ream, raemah. Gaelic, Gairm (a cry).
Gudlo, a., s. Sweet; honey, sugar.
Gudlo, a., s. Sweet; honey, sugar.
Gudlo-pishen, s. Honey-insect, bee. See Bata.
Honey bee. See Bata.
Gué. An affix, by which the dative case is formed: e.g. Man, I; mangué, to me.
Gué. An affix that forms the dative case: e.g. Man, I; mangué, to me.
Guero, s. A person, fellow, that which governs, operates. Sans. Kãra (a maker). Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Welsh, Gwr (a man). In the Spanish cant language, Guro signifies an alguazil, a kind of civil officer. See Engro.
Guero, s. A person, buddy, that which governs, operates. Sans. Kãra (a maker). Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Welsh, Gwr (a man). In the Spanish slang, Guro means an alguazil, a type of civil officer. See Engro.
Gueri, s.f. Female person, virgin: Mideveleskey gueri Mary, Holy Virgin Mary.
Gueri, s.f. Female person, virgin: Medievalesque gueri Mary, Holy Virgin Mary.
Gush / Gurush / Gurushi, a. Groat: gurushengri, a groat’s worth.
Gush / Gurush / Gurushi, a. Groat: gurushengri, the value of a groat.
Guveni, s. Cow. Sans. Go.
Guveni, s. Cow. Sans. Go.
Guveni-bugnior, s. Cow-pox.
Guveni-bugnior, s. Cowpox.
Guveno, s. A bull. Sans. Gavaya. Gaelic, Gavuin, gowain (year-old calf).
Guveno, s. A bull. Sans. Gavaya. Gaelic, Gavuin, gowain (year-old calf).
Guyi, s. Pudding, black pudding. Hin. Gulgul. Span. Gyp. Golli.
Guyi, s. Pudding, blood pudding. Hin. Gulgul. Span. Gyp. Golli.
Guyi-mengreskie tan, s. Yorkshire. Lit. pudding-eaters’ country; in allusion to the puddings for which Yorkshire is celebrated.
Guyi-mengreskie tan, s. Yorkshire. Lit. pudding-eaters’ country; referring to the puddings that Yorkshire is famous for.
H
Ha / Haw, v. a. To eat.
Ha / Haw, v. a. To munch.
Habben, s. Food, victuals.
Food, meals.
Hal, v. a. To eat: mande can’t hal lis, I can’t eat it. Sans. Gala.
Hal, v. a. To eat: mande can’t hal lis, I can’t eat it. Sans. Gala.
Hanlo, s. A landlord, innkeeper. Span. Gyp. Anglanó.
Hatch, v. a. To burn, light a fire.
Hatch, v. a. To burn or start a fire.
Hatchipen, s. A burning.
Hatchipen, s. A fire.
Hatch, v. n. To stay, stop. See Adje, atch, az.
Hatch, v. n. To remain, pause. See Adje, atch, az.
Hatchi-witchu, s. A hedgehog. This is a compound word from the Wal. Aritche, a hedgehog, and the Persian Besha, a wood, and signifies properly the prickly thing of the wood. In Spanish Gypsy, one of the words for a pig or hog is Eriche, evidently the Wallachian Aritche, a hedgehog.
Hatchi-witchu, s. A hedgehog. This is a compound word from the Wal. Aritche, meaning hedgehog, and the Persian Besha, meaning wood, and it properly signifies the prickly thing of the wood. In Spanish Gypsy, one of the words for a pig or hog is Eriche, which clearly comes from the Wallachian Aritche, meaning hedgehog.
Hekta, s. Haste: kair hekta, make haste; likewise a leap. See Hokta. Sans. Hat’ha (to leap).
Hekta, s. Haste: kair hekta, hurry up; also a jump. See Hokta. Sans. Hat’ha (to jump).
Heres / Heris, s. pl. Legs. Span. Gyp. Jerias. Coshtni herri (a wooden leg).
Heres / Heris, s. pl. Legs. Span. Gyp. Jerias. Coshtni herri (a wooden leg).
Hetavava, v. a. To slay, beat, hit, carry off, plunder: if I can lel bonnek of tute hetavava tute, if I can lay hold of you I will slay you. Heb. Khataf (rapuit). Sans. Hat’ha (to ill-use, rapere).
Hetavava, v. a. To kill, strike, hit, take away, plunder: if I can grab a hold of you, I will kill you. Heb. Khataf (to seize). Sans. Hat’ha (to mistreat, to grab).
Hev, s. Hole: pawnugo hev, a water hole, a well; hev, a window; hevior, windows. Sans. Avata.
Hev, s. Hole: hev, a water hole or well; hev, a window; hevior, windows. Sans. Avata.
Heviskey, a. Full of holes: heviskey tan, a place full of holes.
Heviskey, a. Full of gaps: heviskey tan, a spot packed with holes.
Hin, s. Dirt, ordure. Mod. Gr. χυτὸν. Wal. Gounoiou. Irish, Gaineamh (sand).
Hin, s. Dirt, waste. Mod. Gr. χυτὸν. Wal. Gounoiou. Irish, Gaineamh (sand).
Hin, v. a. To void ordure. Sans. Hanna. Mod. Gr. χύνω.
Hin, v. a. To eliminate waste. Sans. Hanna. Mod. Gr. χύνω.
Hindity-mengré / Hindity-mescré, s. pl. Irish. Dirty, sordid fellows.
Hindity-mengré / Hindity-mescré, s. pl. Irish. Dirty, sleazy guys.
Hoffeno, s. A liar.
Hoffeno, s. A liar.
Hok-hornie-mush, s. A policeman. Partly a cant word.
Hok-hornie-mush, s. A policeman. Partly slang.
Hokka, v. n. To lie, tell a falsehood: hokka tute mande, if you tell me a falsehood.
Hokka, v. n. To lie, tell a falsehood: hokka tute mande, if you tell me a falsehood.
Hokkano, s. A lie. Sans. Kuhanã (hypocrisy).
Hokkano, s. A lie. Sans. Kuhanã (hypocrisy).
Hokta, v. a. To leap, jump. See Hekta.
Hokta, v. a. To leap, jump. See Hekta.
Hokta-mengro, s. Leaper, jumper.
Hokta-mengro, s. Leaper, jumper.
Hoofa, s. A cap.
Hoofa, s. A hat.
Hor / Horo, s. A penny. Span. Gyp. Corio an ochavo (or farthing).
Hor / Horo, s. A penny. Span. Gyp. Corio an eighth (or farthing).
Horsworth, s. Pennyworth.
Horsworth, $ Pennyworth.
Horkipen, s. Copper. Hun. Gyp. Harko.
Horkipen, s. Copper. Hun. Gyp. Harko.
Huffeno, s. A liar. See Hoffeno.
Huffeno, s. A liar. See Hoffeno.
Hukni, s. Ringing the changes, the fraudulent changing of one thing for another.
Hukni, s. Making a switch, the dishonest substitution of one thing for another.
I
I, pro. She, it.
I, pro. She, it.
I. A feminine and neuter termination: e.g. Yag engri, a fire-thing or gun; coin si, who is she? so si, what is it?
I. A feminine and neuter termination: e.g. Yag engri, a fire-thing or gun; coin si, who is she? so si, what is it?
Inna / Inner, prep. In, within: inner Lundra, in London. Span. Gyp. Enré.
Inna / Inner, prep. In, within: inner Lundra, in London. Span. Gyp. Enré.
Iouzia, s. A flower.
Iouzia, s. A flower.
Is, conj. If; it is affixed to the verb—e.g. Dikiomis, if I had seen.
Is, conj. If; it is attached to the verb—e.g. Dikiomis, if I had seen.
Iv, s. Snow. Hun. Gyp. Yiv. Span. Gyp. Give.
Iv, s. Snow. Hun. Gyp. Yiv. Span. Gyp. Give.
Iv-engri / Ivi-mengri, s. Snow-thing, snowball.
Snow-thing, snowball.
Iuziou, a. Clean. Mod. Gr. ὑγιὴς (sound, healthy). See Roujio.
Iuziou, a. Clean. Mod. Gr. ὑγιὴς (sound, healthy). See Roujio.
J
Jal. To go, walk, journey. This verb is allied to various words in different languages signifying movement, course or journey:—to the Sanscrit Il, ila, to go; to the Russian Gulliat, to stroll, to walk about; to the Turkish Iel, a journey; to the Jol of the Norse, and the Yule of the Anglo-Saxons, terms applied to Christmas-tide, but which properly mean the circular journey which the sun has completed at that season: for what are Jol and Yule but the Ygul of the Hebrews? who call the zodiac ‘Ygul ha mazaluth,’ or the circle of the signs. It is, moreover, related to the German Jahr and the English Year, radically p. 37the same words as Jol, Yule, and Ygul, and of the same meaning—namely, the circle travelled by the sun through the signs.
Jal. To go, walk, journey. This verb connects to various words in different languages that signify movement, a path, or a journey:—to the Sanskrit Il, ila, to go; to the Russian Gulliat, to stroll, to walk around; to the Turkish Iel, a journey; to the Jol of the Norse, and the Yule of the Anglo-Saxons, terms used for Christmas time, but which originally mean the circular journey that the sun has completed at that season: for what are Jol and Yule but the Ygul of the Hebrews? who call the zodiac ‘Ygul ha mazaluth,’ or the circle of the signs. It is also related to the German Jahr and the English Year, fundamentally the same words as Jol, Yule, and Ygul, and sharing the same meaning—namely, the circle traveled by the sun through the signs. p. 37
Já, v. imp. Go thou!
Yeah, v. imp. Go!
Jal amande. I shall go.
I will go.
Jal te booty. Go to work.
Jal te booty. Go to work.
Jalno / Java / Jaw, v.a. I go. Sans. Chara.
Jalno / Java / Jaw, v.a. I go. Sans. Chara.
Jas, jasa. Thou goest: tute is jasing, thou art going.
Jas, jasa. You go: you are going.
Jal, 3rd pers. pres. He goes.
Jal, 3rd person present. He goes.
Jalla, f. She goes.
Jalla, f. She’s leaving.
Jalno ando pawni, v. a. I swim. Lit. I go in water.
Jalno ando pawni, v. a. I swim. Lit. I go in water.
Jaw, ad. So: jaw si, so it is. See Ajaw, asá, ashá.
Jaw, ad. So: jaw is, so it is. See Ajaw, asá, ashá.
Jib, s. Tongue. Sans. Jihva.
Jib, s. Tongue. Sans. Jihva.
Jib, v. n. To live, to exist. Sans. Jiv. Rus. Jit. Lithuanian, Gywenu.
Jib, v. n. To live, to exist. Sans. Jiv. Rus. Jit. Lithuanian, Gywenu.
Jibben, s. Life, livelihood. Sans. Jivata (life), Jivika (livelihood). Rus. Jivot, Tchivot.
Jibben, s. Life, livelihood. Sans. Jivata (life), Jivika (livelihood). Rus. Jivot, Tchivot.
Jivvel, v. n. He lives: kai jivvel o, where does he live?
Jivvel, v. n. He lives: kai jivvel o, where does he live?
Jin / Jinava, v. n. To know. Sans. Jna.
Jin / Jinava, v. n. To know. Sans. Jna.
Jinnepen, s. Wisdom, knowledge. Sans. Jnapti (understanding).
Wisdom, knowledge. Understanding.
Jinney-mengro, s. A knowing fellow, a deep card, a Grecian, a wise man, a philosopher.
Jinney-mengro, s. A smart guy, a skilled player, a thinker, a wise person, a philosopher.
Jinney-mengreskey rokrapénes. Sayings of the wise: the tatcho drom to be a jinney-mengro is to dick and rig in zi, the true way to be a wise man is to see and bear in mind.
Jinney-mengreskey rokrapénes. Sayings of the wise: the tatcho drom to be a jinney-mengro is to dig and rise in zi, the true way to be a wise man is to see and keep in mind.
Jongar, v. n. To awake. Sans. Jagri. Hin. Jugana.
Jongar, v. n. To wake up. Sans. Jagri. Hin. Jugana.
Jôbis, s. Oats. Sans. Java (barley). Wal. Obia. See Giv.
Jôbis, s. Oats. Sans. Java (barley). Wal. Obia. See Giv.
Joddakaye, s. Apron; anything tied round the middle or hips. Sans. Kata (the hip, the loins), Kataka (a girdle).
Joddakaye, s. Apron; anything tied around the middle or hips. Sans. Kata (the hip, the loins), Kataka (a girdle).
Ju, s. A louse. Sans. Yuka.
Ju, s. A louse. Sans. Yuka.
Juvior, s. pl. Lice.
Juvior, s. pl. Lice.
Juggal / Jukkal, s. Dog. Sans. Srigãla (jackal).
Juggal / Jukkal, s. Dog. Sans. Srigãla (jackal).
Jukkalor. Dogs.
Jukkalor. Dogs.
Jukkaelsti cosht, s. Dog-wood; a hard wood used for making skewers.
Jukkaelsti cosht, s. Dogwood; a tough wood used for making skewers.
Juva / Juvali, Woman, wife.
Juva / Juvali, Woman, spouse.
Juvli, s. Girl. See Chavali.
Juvli, s. Girl. See Chavali.
K
Kael, s. Cheese.
Kael, s. Cheese.
Kaes, s. Cheese.
Kaes, s. Cheese.
Kah / Kai, ad. Where: kai tiro ker, where’s your house? kai si the churi, where is the knife? Sans. Kva.
Kah / Kai, ad. Where: kai tiro ker, where's your house? kai si the churi, where's the knife? Sans. Kva.
Kair, v. a. To do. Sans. Kri, to do; kara (doing).
Kair, v. a. To do. Sans. Kri, to do; kara (doing).
Kair misto. To make well, cure, comfort.
Kair misto. To make better, heal, bring comfort.
Kairipen, s. Work, labour. Sans. Karman.
Kairipen, s. Work. Sans. Karman.
Kakkaratchi, s. Magpie; properly a raven. Mod. Gr. κορακαζ.
Kakkaratchi, s. Magpie; technically a raven. Mod. Gr. κορακαζ.
Kanau / Knau, ad. Now.
Now.
Karring. Crying out, hawking goods. Span. Gyp. Acarar (to call). See Koring.
Karring. Shouting out, selling goods. Span. Gyp. Acarar (to call). See Koring.
Kaulo, a. Black. Sans. Kãla. Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced]
Kaulo, a. Black. Sans. Kãla. Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced]
Kaulo chiriclo, s. A blackbird.
Blackbird.
Kaulo cori, s. A blackthorn.
Kaulo cori, s. A blackthorn bush.
Kaulo durril, s. Blackberry.
Kaulo durril, s. Blackberry.
Kaulo Gav, s. Black-town, Birmingham.
Kaulo Gav, s. Blacktown, Birmingham.
Kaulo guero, s. A black, negro.
Kaulo guero, s. A Black person.
Kaulo guereskey tem, s. Negroland, Africa.
Kaulo guereskey tem, s. Negroland, Africa.
Kaulo-mengro, s. A blacksmith.
Kaulo-mengro, s. A blacksmith.
Kaulo ratti. Black blood, Gypsy blood: kaulo ratti adrey leste, he has Gypsy blood in his veins.
Kaulo ratti. Black blood, Gypsy blood: kaulo ratti adrey leste, he has Gypsy blood in his veins.
Kaun, s. An ear. Sans. Karna.
Kaun, s. An ear. Without. Karna.
Ke, prep. Unto. Likewise a postposition—e.g. lenké, to them.
Ke, prep. To. Also a postposition—e.g. lenké, to them.
Keir / Ker, s. A house. Sans. Griha.
Keir / Ker, s. A home. Sans. Griha.
Ker / Kerey / Ken, ad. Home, homeward: java keri, I will go home.
Ker / Kerey / Ken, ad. Home, homeward: java keri, I will go home.
Keir-poggring. House-breaking.
Keir-pogging. Home invasion.
Keir-rakli, s. A housemaid.
Keir-rakli, s. A maid.
Kek, ad. a. No, none, not: kek tatcho, it is not true.
Kek, ad. a. No, none, not: kek tatcho, it is not true.
Kekkeno, a. None, not any: kekkeni pawni, no water.
Kekkeno, a. None, not any: kekkeni pawni, no water.
Kekkeno mushe’s poov, s. No man’s land; a common.
Kekkeno mushe’s poov, s. No man’s land; a common.
Kekkauvi, s.f. Kettle. Mod. Gr. κακκάβη.
Kekkauvi, s.f. Kettle. Mod. Gr. κακκάβη.
Kekkauviskey saster, s. Kettle-iron; the hook by which the kettle is suspended over the fire.
Kekkauviskey saster, s. Kettle-iron; the hook that holds the kettle over the fire.
Kekko, ad. No, it is not, not it, not he.
Kekko, ad. No, it isn't, not it, not him.
Kekkomi. No more. See Komi, Ever-komi.
Kekkomi. No more. See Komi, Ever-komi.
Kek-cushti. Of no use; no good. See Koshto.
Kek-cushti. Of no use; no good. See Koshto.
Kem, s. The sun. See Cam.
Kem, s. The sun. See Cam.
Ken. A particle affixed in English Gypsy to the name of a place terminating in a vowel, in order to form a genitive; e.g. Eliken bori congri, the great church of Ely. See En.
Ken. A particle added in English Gypsy to the name of a place that ends with a vowel to create a genitive; e.g. Eliken bori congri, the great church of Ely. See En.
Ken, s. A house, properly a nest. Heb. [Hebrew which cannot be reproduced] Kin.
Ken, s. A house, more accurately a nest. Heb. [Hebrew which cannot be reproduced] Kin.
Kenyor, s. pl. Ears. See Kaun.
Kenyor, s. pl. Ears. See Kaun.
Ker / Kerava v. a. To do; make: kair yag, make a fire. Sans. Kri. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Gaelic, Ceaird (a trade), ceard (a tinker). Lat. Cerdo (a smith). English, Char, chare (to work by the day).
Ker / Kerava v. a. To do; make: kair yag, make a fire. Sans. Kri. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Gaelic, Ceaird (a trade), ceard (a tinker). Lat. Cerdo (a smith). English, Char, chare (to work by the day).
Kerdo. He did.
Kerdo. He really did.
Kedast, 2nd pers. pret. Thou didst.
You did.
Kedo, part. pass. Done.
Done.
Kerri-mengro, s. Workman.
Kerri-mengro, s. Workman.
Kerrimus, s. Doing, deed: mi-Doovel’s kerrimus, the Lord’s doing. Sans. Karman (work).
Kerrimus, s. Doing, deed: mi-Doovel’s kerrimus, the Lord’s doing. Sans. Karman (work).
Kettaney, ad. Together. Wal. Ketziba (many). See Kisi.
Kettaney, ad. Together. Wal. Ketziba (many). See Kisi.
Kidda, v. a. To pluck.
Kidda, v. a. To pick.
Kil, v. a. To dance, play. Hin. Kelná. Sans. Kshvel.
Kil, v. a. To dance, play. Hin. Kelná. Sans. Kshvel.
Killi-mengro, s. A dancer, player.
Killi-mengro, s. A dancer, performer.
Kil, s. Butter.
Kil, s. Butter.
Kin, v. a. To buy: kinning and bikkning, buying and selling. Heb. Kana (he bought).
Kin, v. a. To buy: kinning and bikkning, buying and selling. Heb. Kana (he bought).
Kin aley. To ransom, redeem, buy off.
Kin aley. To ransom, redeem, buy off.
Kinnipen, s. A purchase.
Kinnipen, s. A buy.
Kinnipen-divvus, s. Purchasing-day, Saturday.
Kinnipen-divvus, s. Buy Day, Saturday.
Kindo, a. Wet.
Kindo, a. Moist.
Kipsi, s. Basket. Span. Gyp. Quicia.
Kipsi, s. Basket. Span. Gyp. Quicia.
Kinyo. Tired. Span. Gyp. Quiñao.
Kinyo. Tired. Span. Scam. Quiñao.
Kisaiya. A female Gypsy name.
Kisaiya. A woman's name.
Kisi, ad. How much, to what degree: kisi puro shan tu, how old are you? Wal. Kitze. Span. Gyp. Quichi. Sans. Kati (how many?)
Kisi, ad. How much, to what degree: kisi puro shan tu, how old are you? Wal. Kitze. Span. Gyp. Quichi. Sans. Kati (how many?)
Kisseh / Kissi, s. A purse. Sans. Kosa. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Kisseh / Kissi, s. A purse. Sans. Kosa. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Kistur, v. a. To ride. Wal. Keleri.
Kistur, v. a. To ride. Wal. Keleri.
Kistri-mengro / Kistro-mengro, s. Rider, horseman.
Kistri-mengro / Kistro-mengro, s. Rider, equestrian.
Kitchema, s. Public-house, inn. Hun. Korcsma. Wal. Keirtchumie.
Kitchema, s. Pub, inn. Hun. Korcsma. Wal. Keirtchumie.
Kitchema-mengro, s. Innkeeper.
Innkeeper
Klism / Klisn, s. A key. Rus. Cliotche. Mod. Gr. κλείσμα (shutting up).
Klism / Klisn, s. A key. Rus. Cliotche. Mod. Gr. κλείσμα (shutting up).
Klism-engri, s. A lock. Lit. key-thing.
Klism-engri, s. A lock. Lit. key item.
Klism-hev, s. A keyhole.
Keyhole.
Klop, s. A gate, seemingly a cant word; perhaps a bell. Wal. Klopot.
Klop, s. A gate, probably a slang term; maybe a bell. Wal. Klopot.
Kokkodus. Uncle: kokkodus Artáros, Uncle Arthur.
Kokkodus. Uncle: Kokkodus Arthur, Uncle Arthur.
Komi, adv. More: ever-komi, evermore.
Komi, adv. More: ever-komi, forever.
Koosho, a. Good: kooshi gillie, a good song. Sans. Kusala.
Koosho, a. Good: kooshi gillie, a good song. Sans. Kusala.
Koring, part. pres. Rioting. Heb. Kirivah (proclamation).
Koring, present part. Rioting. Heb. Kirivah (announcement).
Kora-mengro, s. A rioter.
Kora-mengro, s. A protester.
Kore, v. a. To hawk goods about, to cry out, to proclaim.
Kore, v. a. To sell goods on the street, to shout, to announce.
Koring lil, s. Hawking-licence.
Koring lil, s. Hawking license.
Koring chiriclo, s. The cuckoo.
Koring chiriclo, s. The cuckoo.
Koshto, a. Good. Pers. خوب
Good.
Koshtipen, s. Goodness, advantage, profit: kek koshtipen in dukkering knau, it is of no use to tell fortunes now.
Koshtipen, s. Goodness, advantage, profit: kek koshtipen in dukkering knau, it’s pointless to tell fortunes now.
Kosko, a. Good.
Kosko, a. Awesome.
Koskipen, s. Goodness.
Koskipen, s. Goodness.
Krallis, s. King. Rus. Korol. Hun. Király. Wal. Kraiu.
Krallis, s. King. Rus. Korol. Hun. Király. Wal. Kraiu.
Kushto, a. Good: kushto si for mangui, I am content.
Kushto, a. Good: kushto si for mangui, I am content.
L
La, pro. pers. Her; accusative of ‘i’ or ‘ yoi,’ she.
La, pro. pers. Her; accusative of ‘i’ or ‘yoi,’ she.
Laki, pro. poss. Her: laki die, her mother.
Laki, pro. poss. Her: laki die, her mom.
Lasa / Lasar, With her; instrumental case of ‘i.’
Lasa / Lasar, with her; instrumental case of 'i.'
Later. From her; ablative of ‘i.’
Later. From her; ablative of ‘i.’
Lati. Genitive of ‘i’; frequently used as the accusative—e.g. cams tu lati, do you love her?
Lati. Genitive of ‘i’; often used as the accusative—e.g. cams tu lati, do you love her?
Lang / Lango, a. Lame. Sans. Lang. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Lenk.
Lang / Lango, a. Lame. Without. Lang. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Lenk.
Lashi / Lasho, Louis. Hungarian, Lajos, Lazlo. Scotch, Lesley.
Lashi / Lasho, Louis. Hungarian, Lajos, Lazlo. Scotch, Lesley.
Latch, v. a. To find. Wal. Aphla.
Latch, v. a. To find. Wal. Aphla.
Lav, s. Word. Sans. Lapa (to speak). Eng. Lip.
Lav, s. Word. Sans. Lapa (to talk). Eng. Lip.
Lavior, pl. Words.
Lavior, pl. Words.
Lav-chingaripen, s. Dispute, word-war.
Word dispute, word-war.
Lav-engro, s. Word-master, linguist.
Wordsmith, s. Linguist.
Len, pro. pers. pl. To them: se len, there is to them, the have.
Len, pro. pers. pl. To them: se len, there is to them, the have.
Lendar, ablative. From them.
Lendar, ablative. From them.
Lensar. With them.
Lensar. With them.
Lengué, pro. poss. Their: lengue tan, their tent.
Lengué, pro. poss. Their: lengue tan, their tent.
Les, pro. pers. To him; dative of ‘yo,’ he: pawno stadj se les, he has a white hat.
Les, pro. pers. To him; dative of ‘you,’ he: pawno stadj se les, he has a white hat.
Lescro, pro. poss. His, belonging to him: lescro prala, his brother.
Lescro, pro. poss. His, belonging to him: lescro prala, his brother.
Leste. Of him, likewise him; genitive and accusative of ‘yo.’
Leste. Of him, also him; genitive and accusative of ‘I.’
Lester. From him.
Lester. From him.
Leste’s. His: leste’s wast, his hand; properly, lescro wast.
Leste’s. His: leste’s wast, his hand; properly, lescro wast.
Lesti. Her or it: pukker zi te lesti, tell her your mind; he can’t rokkra lesti, he can’t speak it.
Lesti. Her or it: when you see her, tell her what you think; he can’t rokkra lesti, he can’t say it.
Leav / Ley, v. a. To take. Wal. Loua.
Leav / Ley, v. a. To take. Wal. Loua.
Lel. He takes.
Lol. He takes.
Lel cappi. Get booty, profit, capital.
Lel money. Get cash, gain, assets.
Lennor, s. Summer, spring.
Lennor, s. Summer, spring.
Levinor, s. Ale; drinks in which there is wormwood. Heb. Laenah (wormwood). Irish, Lion (ale).
Levinor, s. Ale; drinks that contain wormwood. Heb. Laenah (wormwood). Irish, Lion (ale).
Levinor-ker, s. Alehouse.
Levinor-ker, s. Pub.
Levinor-engri. Hop. Lit. ale-thing.
Levinor-engri. Hop. Lit. ale-thing.
Levinor-engriken tem. Kent. Lit. hop-country.
Levinor-engriken theme. Kent. Lit. hop-country.
Li, pron. It: dovo se li, that’s it.
Li, pron. It: "dovo se li," that’s it.
Lidan, v. a. You took; 2nd pers. pret. of Ley.
Lidan, v. a. You took; 2nd pers. pret. of Ley.
Lil, s. Book; a letter or pass. Hun. Level. Sans. Likh (to write). Hindustani, Likhan (to write).
Lil, s. Book; a letter or pass. Hun. Level. Sans. Likh (to write). Hindustani, Likhan (to write).
Lillai, s. Summer. Hun. Gyp. Nilei.
Lillai, s. Summer. Hun. Gyp. Nilei.
Linnow, part. pass. Taken, apprehended.
Linnow, part. pass. Taken, caught.
Lis, pro. dat. To it: adrey lis, in it.
Lis, pro. dat. To it: adrey lis, in it.
Lollo / Lullo, a. Red. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Lal.
Lollo / Lullo, a. Red. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Lal.
Lolle bengres, s. pl. Red waistcoats, Bow Street runners.
Lolle bengres, pl. Red vests, Bow Street runners.
Lollo matcho, s. Red herring. Lit. red fish.
Lollo matcho, s. Red herring. Literally, red fish.
Lolli plaishta, s. A red cloak.
Lolli plaishta, s. A red hoodie.
Lolli, s. A farthing.
Lolli, s. A quarter.
Lou, pro. It: oprey-lou, upon it. Wal. Lou.
Lou, pro. It: oprey-lou, upon it. Wal. Lou.
Loure, v. a. To steal. See Luripen.
Loure, v. a. To steal. See Luripen.
Lubbeny, s. Harlot. Rus. Liabodieitza (adultress), liobodeinoe (adulterous). Sans. Lúbha (to inflame with lust, to desire). The English word Love is derived from this Sanscrit root.
Lubbeny, s. Harlot. Rus. Liabodieitza (adulteress), liobodeinoe (adulterous). Sans. Lúbha (to inflame with lust, to desire). The English word Love comes from this Sanskrit root.
Lubbenipen, s. Harlotry.
Lubbenipen, s. Prostitution.
Lubbenified. Become a harlot.
Lubbenified. Become a sex worker.
Lundra. London. Mod. Gr. Λόνδρα.
London.
Luripen, s. Robbery, a booty. Lit. a seizure. Wal. Luare (seizure, capture), Louarea Parizouloui (the capture of Paris).
Luripen, s. Robbery, a booty. Lit. a seizure. Wal. Luare (seizure, capture), Louarea Parizouloui (the capture of Paris).
Lutherum, s. Sleep, repose, slumber.
Sleep, rest, slumber.
Luvvo, s. Money, currency. Rus. Lóvok (convenient, handy, quick, agile). In Spanish Gypsy, a real (small coin) is called Quelati, a thing which dances, from Quelar, to dance.
Luvvo, s. Money, currency. Rus. Lóvok (convenient, handy, quick, agile). In Spanish Gypsy, a real (small coin) is called Quelati, which means something that dances, from Quelar, to dance.
Luvvo-mengro, s. Money-changer, banker.
Money-changer, banker.
Luvvo-mengro-ker, s. Banker’s house, bank.
Banker's house, bank.
M
Má, ad. Not; only used before the imperative: má muk, let not. Sans. Mã. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Má, ad. Not; only used before the imperative: má muk, do not let. Sans. Mã. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Maas, s. Sans. Mansa Mans. Rus. Maso. See Mas.
Maas, s. Sans. Mansa Mans. Rus. Maso. See Mas.
Maas-engro / Maaso-mengro, s. Butcher.
Maas-engro / Maaso-mengro, s. Butcher.
Mailla, s. Ass, donkey. Wal. Megaroul. Sans. Baluya.
Mailla, s. Ass, donkey. Wal. Megaroul. Sans. Baluya.
Mailla and posh. Ass and foal.
Mailla and fancy. Donkey and colt.
Malleco, a. False.
Malleco, a. Not true.
Malúno / Maloney, s. Lightning. Rus. Mólnïya.
Malúno / Maloney, s. Lightning. Rus. Mólnïya.
Mam, s. Mother. Wal. Moume. Welsh, Mam. Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Muime (a nurse).
Mam, s. Mother. Wal. Moume. Welsh, Mam. Irish and Scottish Gaelic, Muime (a nurse).
Mande, pron. pers. oblique of Man; generally used instead of the nominative Man.
Mande, pron. pers. oblique of Man; usually used instead of the nominative Man.
Mander. Ablative of Man, from me: jã mander, go from me.
Mander. Ablative of Man, from me: jã mander, go from me.
Mande’s. My. Mande’s wast, my hand; used improperly for miro.
Mande’s. My. Mande’s was, my hand; used incorrectly for miro.
Mangue. Dative of Man, to me; sometimes used instead of the nominative.
Mangue. Dative of Man, to me; sometimes used instead of the nominative.
Mansa. With me.
Mansa. With me.
Mang, v. a. To beg. Hin. Mangna. Sans. Mãrg.
Mang, v. a. To beg. Hin. Mangna. Sans. Mãrg.
Mango-mengro, s. A beggar.
Mango-mengro, s. A homeless person.
Mangipen, s. The trade of begging. Sans. Mãrgana (begging).
Mangipen, s. The act of begging. Sans. Mãrgana (begging).
Manricley, s. A cake. Span. Gyp. Manricli.
Manricley, s. A cake. Span. Gyp. Manricli.
Manush, s. Man. Sans. Mãnasha. Span. Gyp. Manus. See Monish.
Manush, s. Man. Sans. Mãnasha. Span. Gyp. Manus. See Monish.
Manushi, s. Woman, wife. Sans. Manushi.
Manushi, s. Woman, wife. Sans. Manushi.
Maricli, s. A cake. See Maricley.
Maricli, s. A cake. See Maricley.
Mash, s. Umbrella. A cant word.
Mash, s. Umbrella. A slang term.
Matcho, s. A fish. Sans. Matsya. Hin. Muchee.
Matcho, s. A fish. Sans. Matsya. Hin. Muchee.
Matcheneskoe Gav. Yarmouth. Lit. the fishy town.
Matcheneskoe Gav. Yarmouth. Lit. the fishy town.
Matcheneskoe guero, s. A fisherman.
Matcheneskoe guero, s. A fisherman.
Matchka, s.f. A cat. Hun. Macska.
Cat.
Matchko, s. m. A he-cat.
Matchko, s. m. A male cat.
Mattipen, s. Drunkenness. Sans. Matta (to be intoxicated). Mod. Gr. Μέθη (intoxication). Welsh, Meddwy (to intoxicate).
Mattipen, s. Drunkenness. Sans. Matta (to be intoxicated). Mod. Gr. Μέθη (intoxication). Welsh, Meddwy (to intoxicate).
Matto, a. Drunk, intoxicated. Welsh, Meddw.
Matto, a. Drunk, intoxicated. Welsh, Meddw.
Matto-mengro, s. Drunkard.
Matto-mengro, s. Alcoholic.
Mea, s. Mile: dui mear, two miles. Wal. Mie.
Mea, s. Mile: two miles. Wal. Mie.
Mea-bar, s. Milestone.
Milestone.
Medisin, s. Measure, bushel. Sans. Mãna.
Medisin, s. Measure, bushel. Sans. Mãna.
Mek, v. n. Leave, let: meklis, leave off, hold your tongue, have done. Sans. Moksh.
Mek, v. n. Leave, let: meklis, stop, be quiet, finish up. Sans. Moksh.
Men, pr. We; pl. of Man.
Men, pr. We; pl. of Man.
Men, Neck. Gaelic, Muineal. Welsh, Mwng. Mandchou, Meifen.
Men-pangushi, s. Neckcloth. See Pangushi.
Men-pangushi, s. Neckcloth. See Pangushi.
Mengro. A word much used in composition. See Engro and Mescro.
Mengro. A word frequently used in composition. See Engro and Mescro.
Mensalli, s. A table. Wal. Masi.
Mensalli, s. A table. Wal. Masi.
Mer / Merava, v. n. To die. Sans. Mri.
Mer / Merava, v. n. To die. Sans. Mri.
Merricley, s. A cake. See Manricley.
Merricley, s. A cake. See Manricley.
Merripen, s. Death. Sans. Mara.
Merripen, s. Death. Without. Mara.
Merripen, s. Life, according to the Gypsies, though one feels inclined to suppose that the real signification of the word is Death; it may, however, be connected with the Gaulic or Irish word Mairam, to endure, continue, live long: Gura’ fada mhaireadh tu! may you long endure, long life to you! In Spanish Gypsy Merinao signifies an immortal.
Merripen, s. Life, according to the Gypsies, even though one might think the true meaning of the word is Death; it could also be linked to the Gaelic or Irish word Mairam, which means to endure, continue, or live long: Gura’ fada mhaireadh tu! may you long endure, wishing you a long life! In Spanish Gypsy, Merinao means an immortal.
Mescro. A particle which, affixed to a verb, forms a substantive masculine:—e.g. Camo, I love; camo-mescro, a lover. Nash, to run; nashi-mescro, a runner. It is equivalent to Mengro, q.v.
Mescro. A particle that, when added to a verb, creates a masculine noun:—e.g. Camo, I love; camo-mescro, a lover. Nash, to run; nashi-mescro, a runner. It's the same as Mengro, q.v.
Messalli, s. A table. Wal. Masi.
Messalli, s. A table. Wal. Masi.
Mestipen, s. Life, livelihood, living, fortune, luck, goodness. Span. Gyp. Mestipen, bestipen. Wal. Viatsie.
Mestipen, s. Life, livelihood, living, fortune, luck, goodness. Span. Gyp. Mestipen, bestipen. Wal. Viatsie.
Mi, pron. I, my.
Me, pron. I, my.
Mi cocoro, pron. poss. I myself, I alone.
Mi cocoro, pron. poss. I myself, I alone.
Mi dearie Dubbeleskey. For my dear God’s sake.
Mi dearie Dubbeleskey. For my dear God’s sake.
Mi develeskie gueri, s.f. A holy female.
My divine warrior, s.f. A sacred woman.
Mi develeskie gueri Mary. Holy Virgin Mary.
Mi develeskie gueri Mary. Holy Virgin Mary.
Mi develeskoe Baval Engro. Holy Ghost.
Mi develeskoe Baval Engro. Holy Ghost.
Mi dubbelungo, a. Divine.
My double, a. Divine.
Mi duvvelungo divvus, s. Christmas Day.
My favorite holiday, s. Christmas Day.
Millior, s. Miles; panj millior, five miles.
Millior, s. Miles; panj millior, 5 miles.
Minge / Mintch, s. Pudendum muliebre.
Minge / Mintch, s. Female genitals.
Miro, pron. poss. My, mine.
Miro, pron. poss. My, mine.
Misto / Mistos, ad. Well.
Misto / Mistos, ad. Good.
Misto dusta. Very well.
Misto dust. Very well.
Mistos amande. I am glad.
Mistos amande. I'm glad.
Mitch, s. See Minge.
Mitch, s. See Minge.
Mizella. Female Gypsy name.
Mizella. Woman's Gypsy name.
Mokkado, a. Unclean to eat. Wal. Mourdar (dirty).
Mokkado, a. Unclean to eat. Wal. Mourdar (dirty).
Monish, s. Man. See Manush.
Monish, s. Man. See Manush.
Mol, s. Wine. See Mul.
Mol, s. Wine. See Mul.
Mollauvis, s. Pewter.
Mollauvis, s. Pewter.
Moomli, s. Candle, taper. See Mumli.
Moomli, s. Candle, taper. See Mumli.
Moomli-mengro, s. Candlestick, lantern.
Moomli-mengro, s. Candle, lantern.
Moar, v. a. To grind. See Morro.
Moar, v. a. To grind. See Morro.
More / Morava, v. a. To kill, slay. Sans. Mri. Wal. Omori.
More / Morava, v. a. To kill, slay. Sans. Mri. Wal. Omori.
Moreno, part. pass. Killed, slain.
Moreno, part. pass. Killed, slain.
More, v. a. To shave, shear. Hun. Gyp. Murinow.
More, v. a. To shave, shear. Hun. Gyp. Murinow.
Mormusti, s.f. Midwife. Wal. Maimoutsi. Rus. Mameichka (nurse).
Mormusti, s.f. Midwife. Wal. Maimoutsi. Rus. Mameichka (nurse).
Moro, pron. poss. Our: moro dad, our father.
Moro, pron. poss. Our: moro dad, our dad.
Morro, s. Bread. Lit. that which is ground. See Moar. Span. Gyp. Manro. Hun. Gyp. Manro, also Gheum: sin gheum manro, gheum is manro (bread). Rus. Gyp. Morroshka (a loaf).
Morro, s. Bread. Literally, that which is ground. See Moar. Span. Gyp. Manro. Hun. Gyp. Manro, also Gheum: sin gheum manro, gheum is manro (bread). Rus. Gyp. Morroshka (a loaf).
Morro-mengro, s. A baker.
Morro-mengro, s. A baker.
Mort, s. Woman, concubine; a cant word.
Mort, s. Woman, mistress; a slang term.
Mosco / Moshko, A fly. Lat. Musca. Wal. Mouskie. Span. Gyp. Moscabis (fly-blown, stung with love, picado, enamorado).
Mosco / Moshko, A fly. Lat. Musca. Wal. Mouskie. Span. Gyp. Moscabis (infested with flies, struck by love, picado, in love).
Moskey, s. A spy: to jal a moskeying, to go out spying. Fr. Mouchard.
Moskey, s. A spy: to jal a moskeying, to go out spying. Fr. Mouchard.
Mufta, s.f. Box, chest. See Muktar.
Mufta, s.f. Box, chest. See Muktar.
Mui, s. Face, mouth: lollo leste mui, his face is red. Sans. Mukha (face, mouth). Fr. Mot (a word). Provenzal, Mo.
Mui, s. Face, mouth: lollo leste mui, his face is red. Sans. Mukha (face, mouth). Fr. Mot (a word). Provenzal, Mo.
Muk, v. n. To leave, let. See Mek.
Muk, v. n. To leave, let. See Mek.
Muktar / Mukto, s. Box, chest.
Muktar / Mukto, s. Box, chest.
Mul, s. Wine. Pers. Mul.
Mul, s. Wine. Pers. Mul.
Mul divvus. Christmas Day. Lit. wine day.
Mul divvus. Christmas Day. Lit. wine day.
Mul-engris, s. pl. Grapes: mul-engri tan, vineyard.
Mul-engris, s. pl. Grapes: mul-engri tan, vineyard.
Mulleni muktar, s. Coffin. Lit. dead-chest.
Mulleni muktar, s. Coffin. Lit. dead chest.
Mullodustie mukto. Id.
Mullodustie mukto. Id.
Mulleno hev, s. Grave.
Mulleno heav, s. Grave.
Mulleno kêr, s. Sepulchre, cemetery.
Mulleno kêr, s. Sepulcher, graveyard.
Mullo, s., a. Dead man, dead.
Mullo, s., a. Dead guy, dead.
Mullo mas, s. Dead meat; flesh of an animal not slain, but which died alone.
Mullo mas, s. Dead meat; the flesh of an animal that wasn't killed, but died on its own.
Mumli, s.f. Candle.
Mumli, s.f. Candle.
Mumli-mescro, s. Chandler.
Mumli-mescro, s. Chandler.
Munjee, s. A blow on the mouth, seemingly a cant word. Hin. Munh, mouth. Ger. Mund.
Munjee, s. A hit on the mouth, apparently a slang term. Hin. Munh, mouth. Ger. Mund.
Murces / Mursior, s. pl. Arms. Span. Gyp. Murciales.
Murces / Mursior, s. pl. Arms. Span. Gyp. Murciales.
Muscro, s. Constable. See Muskerro.
Muscro, s. Constable. See Muskerro.
Mush, s. Man. Rus. Mouge. Finnish, Mies. Tibetian, Mi. Lat. Mas (a male).
Mush, s. Man. Rus. Mouge. Finnish, Mies. Tibetian, Mi. Lat. Mas (male).
Mushi, s. Woman.
Mushi, s. Female.
Mushipen, s. A little man, a lad. Toulousian, Massip (a young man), massipo (a young woman).
Mushipen, s. A little man, a kid. Toulousian, Massip (a young man), massipo (a young woman).
Muskerro, s. Constable.
Muskerro, s. Constable.
Muskerriskoe cost, s. Constable’s staff.
Muskerriskoe fee, s. Constable’s staff.
Mutra, s. Urine.
Urine
Mutrava, v. a. To void urine. Sans. Mutra.
Mutrava, v. a. To urinate. Sans. Mutra.
Mutra-mengri, s. Tea.
Mutra-mengri, s. Tea.
Mutzi, s. Skin. Span. Gyp. Morchas.
Mutzi, s. Skin. Span. Gyp. Morchas.
Mutzior, s. pl. Skins.
Mutzior, s. pl. Skins.
N
Na, ad. Not.
Na, ad. No.
Naflipen, s. Sickness. Span. Gyp. Nasallipen. Mod. Gr. νόσευμα.
Naflipen, s. Illness. Span. Gyp. Nasallipen. Mod. Gr. νόσευμα.
Nai. Properly Na hi, there is not: nai men chior, we have no girls.
Nai. Properly Na hi, there is not: nai men chior, we have no girls.
Naior, s. pl. Nails of the fingers or toes. Mod. Gr. νύχι.
Naior, s. pl. Nails of the fingers or toes. Mod. Gr. νύχι.
Nangipen, s. Nakedness.
Nangipen, s. Nakedness.
Nango, a. Naked.
Nango, a. Bare.
Narilla / Narrila, A female Gypsy name.
Narilla / Narrila, a female Romani name.
Nash, v. a. To run. Span. Gyp. Najar.
Nash, v. a. To run. Span. Gyp. Najar.
Nashimescro, s. Runner, racer.
Nashimescro, s. Runner, racer.
Nashimescro-tan, s. Race-course.
Nashimescro-tan, s. Racetrack.
Nash, v. a. To lose, destroy, to hang. Sans. Nasa. Span. Gyp. Najabar (to lose). Sans. Nakha (to destroy). Eng. Nacker (a killer of old horses).
Nash, v. a. To lose, destroy, or hang. Sans. Nasa. Span. Gyp. Najabar (to lose). Sans. Nakha (to destroy). Eng. Nacker (a killer of old horses).
Nashado, part. pret. Lost, destroyed, hung.
Nashado, past part. Lost, destroyed, hanged.
Nashimescro, s. Hangman.
Nashimescro, s. Executioner.
Nashko, part. pass. Hung: nashko pré rukh, hung on a tree.
Nashko, part. pass. Hung: nashko pré rukh, hung on a tree.
Nasho, part. pass. Hung.
Nasho, past participle. Hanged.
Nástis, a. Impossible. See Astis.
Nástis, a. Impossible. See Astis.
Nav, s. Name. Hun. Nev.
Nav, s. Name. Hun. Nev.
Naval, s. Thread. Span. Gyp. Nafre.
Naval, s. Thread. Span. Gyp. Nafre.
Naes / Nes, postpos. According to, after the manner of: gorgikonaes, after the manner of the Gentiles; Romano-chalugo-naes, after the manner of the Gypsies.
Naes / Nes, postpos. According to, in the way of: gorgikonaes, in the way of the Gentiles; Romano-chalugo-naes, in the way of the Gypsies.
Ne, ad. No, not: ne burroder, no more; ne riddo, not dressed.
Ne, ad. No, not: no more brother, no more; not dressed.
Nevo, a. New.
Nevo, a. New.
Nevi, a. fem. New: nevi tud from the guveni, new milk from the cow.
Nevi, a. fem. New: nevi comes from the guveni, new milk from the cow.
Nevey Rukhies. The New Forest. Lit. new trees.
Nevey Rukhies. The New Forest. Lit. new trees.
Nevi Wesh. The New Forest.
Nevi Wesh. The New Forest.
Nick, v. a. To take away, steal. Span. Gyp. Nicabar.
Nick, v. a. To take away, steal. Span. Gyp. Nicabar.
Nick the cost. To steal sticks for skewers and linen-pegs.
Nick the cost. To swipe sticks for skewers and linen pegs.
Nogo, s. Own, one’s own; nogo dad, one’s own father; nogo tan, one’s own country.
Nogo, s. Own, one’s own; nogo dad, one’s own father; nogo tan, one’s own country.
Nok, s. Nose. Hin. Nakh.
Nok, s. Nose. Hin. Nakh.
Nokkipen, s. Snuff.
Nokkipen, s. Snuff tobacco.
O
O, art. def. The.
O, art. def. The.
O, pron. He.
O, he.
Odoi, ad. There. Hun. Ott, oda.
Odoi, ad. There. Hun. Ott, here.
Oduvvu, pron. dem. That. Span. Gyp. Odoba.
Oduvvu, pron. dem. That. Span. Gyp. Odoba.
Olevas / Olivas / Olivor, s. pl. Stockings. Span. Gyp. Olibias. Wal. Chorapul.
Olevas / Olivas / Olivor, plural noun Stockings. Spanish Gyp. Olibias. Wal. Chorapul.
Opral / Opré / Oprey, prep. Upon, above. Wal. Pre, asoupra.
Opral / Opré / Oprey, prep. Upon, above. Wal. Pre, asoupra.
Or. A plural termination; for example, Shock, a cabbage, pl. shock-or. It is perhaps derived from Ouri, the plural termination of Wallachian neuter nouns ending in ‘e.’
Or. A plural ending; for example, Shock, a cabbage, pl. shock-or. It may be derived from Ouri, the plural ending of Wallachian neuter nouns that end in ‘e.’
Ora, s.f. A watch. Hun. Ora.
Ora, s.f. A watch. Hun. Ora.
Ora, s. An hour: so si ora, what’s o’clock?
Ora, s. An hour: so, what's the time?
Orlenda. Gypsy female name. Rus. Orlitza (female eagle).
Orlenda. Gypsy female name. Rus. Orlitza (female eagle).
Os. A common termination of Gypsy nouns. It is frequently appended by the Gypsies to English nouns in order to disguise them.
Os. A frequent ending of Gypsy nouns. It's often added by Gypsies to English nouns to hide their true meaning.
Owli, ad. Yes. See Avali.
Owli, ad. Yes. See Avali.
P
Pa, prep. By: pá mui, by mouth. Rus. Po.
Pa, prep. By: pá mui, orally. Rus. Po.
Padlo, ad. Across: padlo pawnie, across the water, transported.
Padlo, ad. Across: padlo pawnie, across the water, transported.
Pahamengro, s. Turnip.
Pahamengro, s. Turnip.
Pailloes, s. Filberts.
Filberts.
Pal, s. Brother.
Buddy, s. Brother.
Pal of the bor. Brother of the hedge, hedgehog.
Pal of the bore. Brother of the hedge, hedgehog.
Palal, prep. ad. Behind, after, back again: av palal, come back, come again: palal the welgorus, after the fair. Mod. Gr. πάλιν (again). Rus. Opiat (id.).
Palal, prep. ad. Behind, after, back again: av palal, come back, come again: palal the welgorus, after the fair. Mod. Gr. πάλιν (again). Rus. Opiat (id.).
Pand, v. a. To bind. Sans. Bandh.
Pand, v. a. To bind. Sans. Bandh.
Pandipen, s. Pinfold, prison, pound.
Pandipen, s. Pinfold, jail, pound.
Pandlo, part. pass. Bound, imprisoned, pounded.
Pandlo, part. pass. Bound, trapped, pounded.
Pand opre, v. a. To bind up.
Pand opre, v. a. To wrap up.
Pandlo-mengro, s. Tollgate, thing that’s shut.
Tollgate, thing that’s shut.
Pangushi, s.f. Handkerchief.
Pangushi, s.f. Handkerchief.
Pãni, s. Water. See Pawni.
Pãni, s. Water. See Pawni.
Panishey shock, s. Watercress. Lit. water-cabbage. See Shok.
Panishey shock, s. Watercress. Lit. water-cabbage. See Shok.
Panj, a. Five. See Pansch.
Panj, a. Five. See Pansch.
Pani-mengro, s. Sailor, waterman.
Pani-mengro, s. Sailor, waterman.
Panni-mengri, s. Garden.
Panni-mengri, s. Garden.
Panno, s. Cloth. Lat. Pannus. Wal. Penzie.
Panno, s. Cloth. Lat. Pannus. Wal. Penzie.
Pansch, s. Five. Hin. Panch.
Pansch, s. Five. Hin. Panch.
Pappins / Pappior, s. pl. Ducks. Mod. Gr. πάρια.
Pappins / Pappior, pl. Ducks. Mod. Gr. πάρια.
Paracrow, v. a. To thank: paracrow tute, I thank you.
Paracrow, v. a. To thank: paracrow tute, I appreciate you.
Parava / Parra, v. a. To change, exchange. See Porra.
Parava / Parra, v. a. To change, exchange. See Porra.
Parriken, s. Trust, credit. Mod. Gr. παρακαταθήκη (trusted goods).
Parriken, s. Trust, credit. Mod. Gr. παρακαταθήκη (trusted goods).
Parno, a. White. See Pauno.
Parno, a. White. See Pauno.
Pas, s. Half. See Posh.
Pas, s. Half. See Posh.
Pasherro, s. Halfpenny; pl. pasherie. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Pasheez (a farthing).
Pasherro, s. Halfpenny; pl. pasherie. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced] Pasheez (a farthing).
Pas-more, v. a. Half-kill.
Pas-more, v. a. Half-kill.
Patch, s. Shame. Span. Gyp. Pachi, modesty, virginity. Sans. Putchã.
Patch, s. Shame. Span. Gyp. Pachi, modesty, virginity. Sans. Putchã.
Patnies, s. pl. Ducks.
Patnies, s. pl. Ducks.
Patrin, s. A Gypsy trail; handfuls of leaves or grass cast by the Gypsies on the road, to denote to those behind the way which they have taken.
Patrin, s. A Gypsy trail; handfuls of leaves or grass thrown by the Gypsies on the road, to show those following the path they took.
Pattin, s. A leaf. Span. Gyp. Patia. Sans. Patra.
Pattin, s. A leaf. Span. Gyp. Patia. Sans. Patra.
Pattinor. Leaves.
Pattinor. Leaves.
Paub / Paubi, s. An apple. Hung. Gyp. Paboy.
Paub / Paubi, s. An apple. Hung. Gyp. Paboy.
Pauno, a. White. Sans. Pandu. Gaelic, Ban.
Pauno, a. White. Sans. Pandu. Gaelic, Ban.
Pauno gad. Clean shirt.
Nice shirt.
Pauno sherro. Grey head, white head.
Pauno sherro. Grey head, white head.
Pauno, s. Flour. Lit. what is white. The Latin ‘panis’ seems to be connected with this word.
Pauno, s. Flour. Literally, what is white. The Latin ‘panis’ seems to be linked to this word.
Pauno-mengro, s. A miller, white fellow.
Miller, white guy.
Pauno-mui, s. Pale face; generally applied to a vain, foolish girl, who prefers the company of the pallid Gentiles to that of the dark Romans.
Pauno-mui, s. Pale face; usually used to describe a vain, foolish girl who chooses to associate with pale-skinned Gentiles rather than dark-skinned Romans.
Pauvi, s. An apple.
Pauvi, s. An apple.
Pauvi-pãni, s. Cyder, apple-water.
Apple cider
Pawdel, ad. Across, over: pawdel puve and pawni, across land and water; pawdel the chumba, over the hill.
Pawdel, ad. Across, over: pawdel puve and pawni, across land and water; pawdel the chumba, over the hill.
Pawnee / Pawni, s. Water. Sans. Pãniya. Hin. Panie. Eng. Pond. See Pāni.
Pawnee / Pawni, s. Water. Sans. Pãniya. Hin. Panie. Eng. Pond. See Pāni.
Pawnugo, a. Watery: pawnugo hev, water-hole, well.
Pawnugo, a. Watery: pawnugo hev, water hole, well.
Pazorrhus, part. pass. Indebted. See Pizarris.
Pazorrhus, part. pass. Indebted. See Pizarris.
Péava, v. a. To drink. Sans. Pã.
Péava, v. a. To drink. Sans. Pã.
Péa-mengri, s. Tea-pot. Wal. Bea. Lit. drinking thing.
Péa-mengri, s. Tea pot. Wal. Bea. Lit. drinking vessel.
Peeapen, s. Health: ako’s your peeapen! here’s your health!
Peeapen, s. Health: how’s your peeapen! here’s to your health!
Pea-mengro, s. Drunkard.
Drunkard.
Pedloer, s. Nuts; prop. Acorns. Pers. Peleed.
Pedloer, s. Nuts; prop. Acorns. Pers. Peeled.
Peerdie, s. Female tramper.
Peerdie, s. Female hiker.
Peerdo, s. Male tramper.
Peerdo, s. Male hiker.
Pek’d / Pekt, part. pass. Roasted. Span. Gyp. Peco. Sans. Pãka (cooking). Pers. Pekhtan. Rus. Petsch (oven).
Pek’d / Pekt, part. pass. Roasted. Span. Gyp. Peco. Sans. Pãka (cooking). Pers. Pekhtan. Rus. Petsch (oven).
Pele, s. pl. Testicles. Sans. P’hala.
Pele, s. pl. Testicles. Sans. P’hala.
Pelengo gry / Pelengro gry, s. Stone-horse.
Pelengo gry / Pelengro gry, s. Stone horse.
Pen, a particle affixed to an adjective or a verb when some property or quality, affection or action is to be expressed, the termination of the first word being occasionally slightly modified: for example, Kosko, good, koskipen, goodness; Tatcho, true, tatchipen, truth; Camo, I love, camipen, love; Chingar, to fight, p. 52chingaripen, war. It is of much the same service in expressing what is abstract and ideal as Engro, Mescro, and Engri are in expressing what is living and tangible. It is sometimes used as a diminutive, e.g. Mushipen, a little fellow.
Pen is a particle attached to an adjective or verb when expressing a property, quality, feeling, or action, with the ending of the first word sometimes slightly altered: for instance, Kosko, good, koskipen, goodness; Tatcho, true, tatchipen, truth; Camo, I love, camipen, love; Chingar, to fight, p. 52chingaripen, war. It serves a similar purpose in expressing the abstract and ideal as Engro, Mescro, and Engri do for what is living and tangible. It can also be used as a diminutive, e.g. Mushipen, a little fellow.
Pen, s. Sister.
Pen, s. Sister.
Pen / Penav, v. a. To say, speak. Wal. Spoune.
Pen / Penav, v. a. To say, speak. Wal. Spoune.
Penchava, v. n. To think. Pers. Pendashten. Sans. Vi-cit.
Penchava, v. n. To think. Pers. Pendashten. Sans. Vi-cit.
Penliois, s. Nuts. See Pedloer.
Penliois, s. Nuts. See Pedloer.
Per, s. Belly.
Per, s. Belly.
Per, v. n. To fall. Span. Gyp. Petrar. Sans. Pat.
Per, v. n. To drop. Span. Gyp. Petrar. Sans. Pat.
Per tuley. To fall down.
Per tuley. To fall down.
Perdo, a. Full. Sans. Purva, to fill.
Perdo, a. Complete. Sans. Purva, to fill.
Pes / Pessa, v. a. To pay. Span. Gyp. Plaserar. Rus. Platit. Wal. Pleti. Hun. Fizetni.
Pes / Pessa, v. a. To pay. Span. Gyp. Plaserar. Rus. Platit. Wal. Pleti. Hun. Fizetni.
Pes apopli. To repay.
Pes apopli. To repay.
Petul, s. A horse-shoe. Mod. Gr. πέταλον. Wal. Potkoavie. Heb. Bedel (tin).
Petul, s. A horseshoe. Mod. Gr. πετάλον. Wal. Potkoavie. Heb. Bedel (tin).
Petul-engro, s. Horseshoe-maker, smith, tinker; the name of a Gypsy tribe.
Petul-engro, s. Horseshoe maker, blacksmith, tinker; the name of a Gypsy group.
Pi, v. a. To drink. Sans. Piva (drinking). See Peava.
Pi, v. a. To drink. Sans. Piva (drinking). See Peava.
Pias, s. Fun. Mod. Gr. παίζω (to play).
Pias, s. Fun. Mod. Gr. παίζω (to play).
Pikkis / Pikkaris, s. pl. Breasts. See Birk, bark. Wal. Piept.
Pikkis / Pikkaris, s. pl. Breasts. See Birk, bark. Wal. Piept.
Pikko, s. Shoulder.
Pikko, s. Shoulder.
Pios, part. pass. Drunken. Only employed when a health is drunk: e.g. aukko tu pios adrey Romanes, your health is drunk in Romany.
Pios, part. pass. Drunk. Only used when a toast is made: e.g. aukko tu pios adrey Romanes, your health is toasted in Romany.
Píre, s. pl. Feet.
Píre, s. pl. Feet.
Pirè, s. pl. Trampers.
Trampers.
Pire-gueros, s. pl. Travellers, trampers. Lit. foot-fellows.
Pire-gueros, s. pl. Travellers, hikers. Lit. foot-fellows.
Pireni, s.f. Sweetheart.
Pireni, s.f. Sweetheart.
Pireno, s. m. Sweetheart.
Pireno, s. m. Sweetheart.
Piro, v. a. To walk: pirel, he walks.
Piro, v. a. To walk: pirel, he walks.
Piro-mengro, s. Walker.
Piro-mengro, s. Walker.
Pishen, s. Flea, any kind of insect: guldo pishen, honey-insect, bee, honey.
Pishen, s. Flea, any type of insect: guldo pishen, honey insect, bee, honey.
Pivli, s. A widow.
Pivli, s. A widow.
Pivlo, s. A widower.
Pivlo, s. A divorced man.
Pivley-gueri, s. A widowed female.
Pivley-gueri, s. A widowed woman.
Pivley-guero, s. A widowed fellow.
Pivley-guero, s. A widower.
Pivley-raunie, s. A widow lady.
Pivley-raunie, s. A widow.
Piya-mengro, s. Drunkard. See Pea-mengro.
Piya-mengro, s. Drunkard. See Pea-mengro.
Pizarris / Pizaurus, part. pass. Trusted, credited, in debt. Sans. Vishvas (to trust). Wal. Se bizoui (to trust, to credit). Mod. Gr. πιστευθίες (he who has been credited). Span. Gyp. Bisarar (to owe), bisauras (debts), pista (an account).
Pizarris / Pizaurus, part. pass. Trusted, credited, in debt. Sans. Vishvas (to trust). Wal. Se bizoui (to trust, to credit). Mod. Gr. πιστευθίες (he who has been credited). Span. Gyp. Bisarar (to owe), bisauras (debts), pista (an account).
Pizarri-mengro, s. A trusted person, a debtor.
Pizarri-mengro, s. A trusted person, a borrower.
Plakta, s. Sheet: bero-rukiskie plakta, a ship’s sail.
Plakta, s. Sheet: bero-rukiskie plakta, a ship's sail.
Plashta, s. Cloak: lolli plashta, red cloak. Span. Gyp. Plata. Plakta and plashta are probably both derived from the Wallachian postat, a sheet.
Plashta, s. Cloak: lolli plashta, red cloak. Span. Gyp. Plata. Plakta and plashta likely both come from the Wallachian postat, meaning a sheet.
Plastra, v. a. To run.
Plastra, v. a. To run.
Plastra lesti. Run it; run for your life.
Plastra lesti. Run! Run for your life.
Plastra-mengro, s. a. A Bow Street runner, a pursuer. In Spanish Gypsy, Plastañi means a company which pursues robbers.
Plastra-mengro, s. a. A Bow Street runner, a chaser. In Spanish Gypsy, Plastañi means a group that chases robbers.
Poggado, part. pass. Broken.
Broken.
Poggado bavol-engro, s. Broken-winded horse.
Poggado bavol-engro, s. Broken-winded horse.
Poggado habben, s. Broken victuals.
Poggado habben, s. Leftover food.
Poggra, v. a. To break. Wal. Pokni.
Poggra, v. a. To break. Wal. Pokni.
Poggra-mengri, s. A mill. Lit. a breaking thing.
Poggra-mengri, s. A mill. Literally, a breaking thing.
Poknies, s. Justice of the peace. Rus. Pokoio (to pacify).
Poknies, s. Justice of the peace. Rus. Pokoio (to pacify).
Pokiniskoe ker, s. House of a justice of the peace.
Pokiniskoe ker, s. House of a justice of the peace.
Pooshed / Poosheno, part. pass. Buried: mulo ta poosheno, dead and buried.
Pooshed / Poosheno, part. pass. Buried: mulo ta poosheno, dead and buried.
Por, s. Feather. Pers. Par. Sans. Parna.
Por, s. Feather. Pers. Par. Sans. Parna.
Por-engro, s. Pen-master, penman, one able to write.
Por-engro, s. Pen-master, penman, someone who can write.
Porior, s. pl. Feathers.
Feathers.
Pordo, a. Heavy. Wal. Povarie (a weight). Lat. Pondus.
Pordo, a. Heavy. Wal. Weight (a weight). Lat. Pondus.
Porra, v. a. To exchange.
Dude, v. a. To trade.
Posh, s. Half.
Posh, s. Half.
Posherro / Poshoro, s. Halfpenny.
Posherro / Poshoro, s. Half a penny.
Possey-mengri, s. Pitchfork; improperly used for any fork. The literal meaning is a straw-thing; a thing used for the removal of straw. See Pus.
Possey-mengri, s. Pitchfork; incorrectly used for any type of fork. The literal meaning is a straw tool; something used for getting rid of straw. See Pus.
Potan, s. Tinder. Wal. Postabh (sheet, cloth). Sans. Pata (cloth).
Potan, s. Tinder. Wal. Postabh (sheet, cloth). Sans. Pata (fabric).
Poov / Pov, s. Earth, ground. Sans. Bhu.
Poov / Pov, s. Earth, ground. Sans. Bhu.
Poov, v. To poov a gry, to put a horse in a field at night.
Poov, v. To poov a gry, to let a horse graze in a field at night.
Pov-engro, s. An earth thing, potato.
Pov-engro, s. A potato.
Pov-engreskoe, a. Belonging to the potato.
Pov-engreskoe, a. Potato-related.
Povengreskoe gav. Potato town—Norwich.
Povengreskoe Park. Potato town—Norwich.
Povengreskoe tem. Potato country—Norfolk.
Potato country—Norfolk.
Povo-guero, s. Mole, earth-fellow.
Povo-guero, s. Mole, earth friend.
Praio, a. Upper: praio tem, upper country, heaven. Span. Gyp. Tarpe (heaven). See Opré.
Praio, a. Upper: praio has, upper country, heaven. Span. Gyp. Tarpe (heaven). See Opré.
Prala, s. Brother.
Prala, s. Brother.
Pude, v. a. To blow.
Pude, v. a. To blow.
Pude-mengri, s. Blowing thing, bellows.
Pude-mengri, s. Blowing device, bellows.
Pudge, s. Bridge. Wal. Pod, podoul. Pers. Pul. Sans. Pāli.
Pudge, s. Bridge. Wal. Pod, podoul. Pers. Pul. Sans. Pāli.
Pukker, v. a. To tell, declare, answer, say, speak. Span. Gyp. Pucanar (to proclaim). Hin. Pukar, pukarnar.
Pukker, v. a. To tell, declare, answer, say, speak. Span. Gyp. Pucanar (to proclaim). Hin. Pukar, pukarnar.
Pur, s. Belly. See Per.
Pur, s. Belly. See Per.
Pureno, a. Ancient, old: pureno foky, the old people. Sans. Purvya (ancient).
Pureno, a. Ancient, old: pureno foky, the old people. Sans. Purvya (ancient).
Puro, a. Old. Sans. Purã.
Pure, a. Old. Sans. Pure.
Puro dad, s. Grandfather.
Puro dad, s. Grandfather.
Purrum, s. Leek, onion. Lat. Porrum.
Leek, onion.
Pus, s. Straw. Sans. Busa, chaff.
Pus, s. Straw. Sans. Busa, chaff.
Putch, v. a. To ask. Hin. Puchhna.
Putch, v. a. To ask. Hin. Puchhna.
Putsi, s. Purse, pocket. Sans. Putã, pocket. Wal. Pountsi. Old cant, Boung.
Putsi, s. Purse, pocket. Sans. Putã, pocket. Wal. Pountsi. Old cant, Boung.
Putsi-lil, s. Pocket-book.
Putsi-lil, s. Notebook.
Puvvo, s. Earth, ground. See Poov.
Puvvo, s. Earth, ground. See Poov.
Puvvesti churi, s. a. Plough.
Plow.
R
Raia, s. Gentleman, lord. See Rye.
Raia, s. Gentleman, lord. See Rye.
Rak, v. n. To beware, take care; rak tute, take care of yourself. Sans. Raksh (to guard, preserve).
Rak, v. n. To be cautious, take care; rak tute, look after yourself. Sans. Raksh (to protect, maintain).
Rakli, s.f. Girl.
Girl.
Raklo, s. Boy, lad.
Raklo, s. Boy, guy.
Ran, s. Rod: ranior, rods. Sans. Ratha (cane, ratan).
Ran, s. Rod: ranior, rods. Sans. Ratha (cane, rattan).
Rarde, s. Night. Sans. Rātri.
Rarde, s. Night. Without. Rātri.
Rardiskey, a. Nightly.
Rardiskey, a. Nightly.
Rardiskey kair poggring, s. Housebreaking by night, burglary.
Rardiskey kair poggring, s. Housebreaking at night, burglary.
Rashengro, s. Clergyman.
Rashengro, s. Pastor.
Rashi, s. Clergyman, priest. Sans. Rishi (holy person).
Rashi, s. Clergyman, priest. Sans. Rishi (spiritual leader).
Rashieskey rokkring tan, s. Pulpit.
Rashieskey rocking tan, s. Pulpit.
Ratcheta, s. A goose, duck. See Retsa.
Ratcheta, s. A goose, duck. See Retsa.
Ratti, s. Blood. Sans. Rudhira.
Ratti, s. Blood. Without. Rudhira.
Ratniken chiriclo, s. Nightingale.
Nightingale
Rawnie, s. Lady.
Rawnie, s. Lady.
Rawniskie dicking gueri, s. Lady-like looking woman.
Rawniskie dicking gueri, s. Lady-like woman.
Rawniskie tatti naflipen, s. The lady’s fever, maladie de France.
Rawniskie tatti naflipen, s. The lady’s fever, French sickness.
Retza, s. Duck. Wal. Rierzoiou. See Rossar-mescro. Hun. Récze.
Retza, s. Duck. Wal. Rierzoiou. See Rossar-mescro. Hun. Récze.
Reyna. A female Gypsy name.
Reyna. A Romani name for women.
Riddo, part. pass. Dressed. Span. Gyp. Vriardao.
Riddo, dressed. Span. Gyp. Vriardao.
Rig in zi. To remember, bear in mind.
Rig in zi. To remember, keep in mind.
Rig to zi. To bring to mind.
Rig to zi. To bring to mind.
Rinkeno, a. Handsome.
Rinkeno, adj. Attractive.
Rivipen, s. Dress. Lit. linen clothes, women’s dress. Wal. Ruphe. Mod. Gr. ῥάπτης (a tailor). In Spanish Gypsy clothes are called Goneles, from the Wallachian Khainele.
Rivipen, s. Dress. Lit. linen clothes, women’s dress. Wal. Ruphe. Mod. Gr. ῥάπτης (a tailor). In Spanish, Gypsy clothes are called Goneles, derived from the Wallachian Khainele.
Rodra, v. a. To search, seek.
Rodra, v. a. To search.
Roi, s. Spoon.
Roi, s. Spoon.
Rokra, v. a. To talk, speak. Rus. Rek (he said). Lat. Loquor.
Rokra, v. a. To talk, speak. Rus. Rek (he said). Lat. Loquor.
Rokrenchericlo, s. Parrot, magpie.
Rokrenchericlo, s. Parrot, magpie.
Rokrenguero, s. A lawyer, talker. Gaelic, Racaire (a chatterer).
Rokrenguero, s. A lawyer, someone who talks a lot. Gaelic, Racaire (a talkative person).
Rokrengueriskey gav. Talking fellows’ town—Norwich.
Rokrengueriskey gave. Talking guys’ town—Norwich.
Rokunyes, s. Trousers, breeches. Hun. Gyp. Roklia (gown). Mod. Gr. ῤόχρν (cloth).
Rokunyes, s. Trousers, breeches. Hun. Gyp. Roklia (gown). Mod. Gr. ῤόχρν (cloth).
Rom, s. A husband. Sans. Rama (a husband), Rama (an incarnation of Vishnu), Rum (to sport, fondle). Lat. Roma (City of Rama). Gaelic, Rom (organ of manhood). Eng. Ram (aries, male sheep). Heb. Ream (monoceros, unicorn).
Rom, s. A husband. Sans. Rama (a husband), Rama (an incarnation of Vishnu), Rum (to play, cuddle). Lat. Roma (City of Rama). Gaelic, Rom (male organ). Eng. Ram (male sheep). Heb. Ream (unicorn).
Rommado, part. pass. s. Married, husband.
Rommado, part. pass. s. Married, spouse.
Romm’d, part. pass. Married.
Rommed, part. pass. Married.
Romano Chal / Romany Chal, A Gypsy fellow, Gypsy lad. See Chal.
Romano Chal / Romany Chal, a Gypsy guy, Gypsy kid. See Chal.
Romani chi. Gypsy lass, female Gypsy.
Romani girl. Gypsy girl, female Gypsy.
Romanes / Romany, Gypsy language.
Romani, Gypsy language.
Romaneskoenaes. After the Gypsy fashion. Wal. Roumainesk (Roumainean, Wallachian.)
Romanesque. After the Gypsy style. Wal. Romanian (Roumainean, Wallachian.)
Romano Rye / Romany Rye, Gypsy gentleman.
Romano Rye / Romany Rye, Gypsy gentleman.
Rook / Rukh, s. Tree. Sans. Vriksha. Hun. Gyp. Rukh. Span. Gyp. Erucal (an olive-tree).
Rook / Rukh, noun. Tree. Sans. Vriksha. Hun. Gyp. Rukh. Span. Gyp. Erucal (an olive tree).
Rookeskey cost. Branch of a tree.
Rookeskey cost. Branch of a tree.
Rooko-mengro, s. Squirrel. Lit. tree-fellow.
Rooko-mengro, s. Squirrel. Lit. tree friend.
Roshto, a. Angry. Wal. Resti (to be angry).
Roshto, a. Mad. Wal. Resti (to be mad).
Rossar-mescro, s. Gypsy name of the tribe Heron, or Herne. Lit. duck-fellow.
Rossar-mescro, s. Gypsy name for the Heron tribe, or Herne. Lit. duck-fellow.
Roujiou, a. Clean. See Iuziou.
Roujiou, a. Clean. See Iuziou.
Rove, v. n. To weep. Sans. Rud.
Rove, v. n. To cry. Sans. Rud.
Rup, s. Silver. Sans. Raupya. Hin. Rupee.
Rup, s. Silver. Sans. Raupya. Hin. Rupee.
Rupenoe, a. Silver: rupenoe péa-mengri, silver tea-pots.
Rupenoe, a. Silver: rupenoe péa-mengri, silver teapots.
Ruslipen, s. Strength.
Ruslipen, s. Strength.
Ruslo, a. Strong. Mod. Gr. ῥῶσω (roborabo). Rus. Rosluy (great, huge of stature). Hun. Erö (strength), erös (strong).
Ruslo, a. Strong. Mod. Gr. ῥῶσω (roborabo). Rus. Rosluy (great, huge of stature). Hun. Erö (strength), erös (strong).
Rye, s. A lord, gentleman. Sans. Raj, Rayã.
Rye, s. A lord, gentleman. Sans. Raj, Rayã.
Ryeskoe, a. Gentlemanly.
Ryeskoe, a. Classy.
Ryeskoe dicking guero. Gentlemanly looking man.
Ryeskoe dicking guero. Gentlemanly looking man.
Ryoriskey rokkaring keir, s. The House of Commons. Lit. the gentlemen’s talking house.
Ryoriskey rokkaring keir, s. The House of Commons. Lit. the gentlemen’s talking house.
S
Sacki. Name of a Gypsy man.
Sacki. Name of a Romani man.
Sainyor, s. Pins. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Sainyor, s. Pins. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Sal, v. n. To laugh; properly, he laughs. Span. Gyp. Asaselarse. Sans. Has.
Sal, v. n. To laugh; technically, he laughs. Span. Gyp. Asaselarse. Sans. Has.
Salla. She laughs.
Salla. She laughs.
Salivaris, s.f. Bridle. See Sollibari.
Salivaris, s.f. Bridle. See Sollibari.
Sap / Sarp, s. Snake, serpent. Wal. Sharpelé. Span. Gyp. Chaplesca.
Sap / Sarp, s. Snake, serpent. Wal. Sharpelé. Span. Gyp. Chaplesca.
Sappors, s. pl. Snakes.
Sappors, s. pl. Snakes.
Sap drey chaw. A snake in the grass: sap drey bor, a snake in the hedge.
Sap drey chaw. A snake in the grass: sap drey bor, a snake in the hedge.
Sapnis, s. Soap. Mod. Gr. σαποῦνι. Wal. Sipoun.
Soap.
Sar, conjunct. As.
Sar, conjunct. As.
Sar, ad. How.
How.
Sar shin, How are you? Sar shin, meero rye? Sar shin, meeri rawnie? How are you, sir? How are you, madam?
Sar shin, how are you? Sar shin, meero rye? Sar shin, meri rawnie? How are you, sir? How are you, madam?
Sas. If it were. See Is.
Sas. If it were. See Is.
Sas, s. Nest. See Tass.
Sas, s. Nest. See Tass.
Sarla, s. Evening: koshti sarla, good evening. See Tasarla. Wal. Seara. Mod. Gr. σίδηρον.
Sarla, s. Evening: koshti sarla, good evening. See Tasarla. Wal. Seara. Mod. Gr. σίδηρον.
Saster, s. Iron.
Saster, s. Iron.
Saster-mengri, s. A piece of iron worn above the knee by the skewer-makers whilst engaged in whittling.
Saster-mengri, s. A piece of iron worn above the knee by the skewer-makers while they are carving.
Saster-mengro, s. Ironmonger.
Ironmonger.
Sasters, sastris. Nails: chokkiskey sastris, shoe-nails.
Sasters, sastris. Nails: chokkiskey sastris, shoe-nails.
Sau, adv. How.
So, adv. How.
Sau kisi. How much?
How much?
Saulohaul / Sovlehaul, v. a. To swear.
Saulohaul / Sovlehaul, v. a. To curse.
Saulohaul bango. To swear falsely.
Saulohaul bango. To lie under oath.
Sauloholomus, s. Oath. Span. Gyp. Solája (a curse). Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced] Salat (prayer). Lat. Solemnis. Fr. Serment. Wal. Jourirnint (oath).
Sauloholomus, s. Oath. Span. Gyp. Solája (a curse). Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced] Salat (prayer). Lat. Solemnis. Fr. Serment. Wal. Jourirnint (oath).
Savo, pron. Who, that, which.
Savo, pron. Who, that, which.
Saw, v. n. I laugh. Sawschan tu, you laugh.
Saw, v. n. I laugh. You laugh, too.
Scamp. Name of a small Gypsy tribe. Sans. Kshump (to go).
Scamp. Name of a small Gypsy group. Sans. Kshump (to go).
Scourdilla, s.f. Platter. Lat. Scutella.
Scourdilla, s.f. Platter. Lat. Scutella.
Scunyes / Scunyor, s. pl. Pins, skewers. See Escunyes.
Scunyes / Scunyor, s. pl. Pins, skewers. See Escunyes.
Se, 3rd pers. sing. pres. Is, there is: kosko guero se, he is a good fellow; se les, there is to him, he has.
Se, 3rd pers. sing. pres. Is, there is: kosko guero se, he is a good guy; se les, there is for him, he has.
Shab, v. a. Cut away, run hard, escape. Hun. Szabni. This word is chiefly used by the tobair coves, or vagrants.
Shab, v. a. Cut away, run fast, escape. Hun. Szabni. This word is mainly used by the tobair coves, or vagrants.
Shan. You are, they are. See Shin.
Shan. You are, they are. See Shin.
Shehaury. Sixpence. See Shohaury.
Shehaury. Sixpence. See Shohaury.
Shello, s. Rope. Span. Gyp. Jele.
Shello, s. Rope. Span. Gyp. Jele.
Shello-hokta-mengro, s. Rope-dancer.
Shello-hokta-mengro, s. Rope dancer.
Sher-engro, s. A head-man, leader of a Gypsy tribe.
Sher-engro, s. A chief, leader of a Gypsy tribe.
Sher-engri, s. A halter.
Halter
Shero, s. A head. Pers. سر
Shero, s. A leader. Pers. سر
Sherro’s kairipen, s. Learning, head-work.
Sherro’s kairipen, s. Learning, mental work.
Sheshu, s. Hare, rabbit. See Shoshoi.
Sheshu, s. Hare, rabbit. See Shoshoi.
Sherrafo, a. Religious, converted. Arab. Sherif.
Sherrafo, a. Religious, converted. Arab. Sheriff.
Shilleno / Shilleró / Shillo, a. Cold: shillo chik, cold ground.
Shilleno / Shilleró / Shillo, a. Cold: shillo chik, cold ground.
Shillipen, s. Cold.
Chilly.
Shin. Thou art: sar shin, how art thou?
Shin. You are: sar shin, how are you?
Sho, s. Thing.
Sho, s. Thing.
Sho, a. Six.
Sho, a. Six.
Shohaury, s. Sixpence.
Shohaury, s. Sixpence.
Shok, s. Cabbage: shockor, cabbages. Span. Gyp. Chaja.
Shock, s. Cabbage: shockor, cabbages. Span. Gyp. Chaja.
Shom, v. 1st pers. pres. I am. Used in the pure Roman tongue to express necessity: e.g. shom te jav, I must go. Lat. Sum. Hun. Gyp. Hom.
Shom, v. 1st pers. pres. I am. Used in the pure Roman language to express necessity: e.g. shom te jav, I must go. Lat. Sum. Hun. Gyp. Hom.
Shoob, s. Gown. Rus. Shoob. See Shubbo.
Shoob, s. Dress. Rus. Shoob. See Shubbo.
Shoon, v. n. To hear. Pers. Shiniden. Sans. Sru.
Shoon, v. n. To hear. Pers. Shiniden. Sans. Sru.
Shoonaben, s. Hearing, audience. To lel shoonaben of the covar, to take hearing of the matter.
Shoonaben, s. Hearing, audience. To lel shoonaben of the covar, to listen to the matter.
Shoshoi, s. A hare or rabbit, but generally used by the Gypsies for the latter. Sans. Sasa (a hare or rabbit). Hun. Gyp. Shoshoi.
Shoshoi, s. A hare or rabbit, but generally used by the Gypsies for the latter. Sans. Sasa (a hare or rabbit). Hun. Gyp. Shoshoi.
Shubbo, s. A gown. Rus. Shoob. Wal. Djoube.
Shubbo, s. A dress. Rus. Shoob. Wal. Djoube.
Shubley patnies, s. pl. Geese.
Shubley patnies, s. pl. Geese.
Shun. A female Gypsy name.
Shun. A female Romani name.
Shuvvali, a. Enceinte, with child.
Pregnant, expecting a child.
Si, 3rd pers. sing. pres. It is, she is: tatchipen si, it is truth; coin si rawnie, who is the lady? sossi your nav, what is your name?
Si, 3rd pers. sing. pres. It is, she is: tatchipen si, it is truth; coin si rawnie, who is the lady? sossi your nav, what is your name?
Sicovar, ad. Evermore, forever. Hun. Gyp. Sekovar.
Si covar ajaw. So it is.
Si covar ajaw. So it is.
Sig, ad. Quick, soon: cana sig, now soon. Span. Gyp. Singó. Hun. Sietö.
Sig, ad. Quick, soon: cana sig, now soon. Span. Gyp. Singó. Hun. Sietö.
Sig, s. Haste.
Sig, s. Quick.
Sikkér, v. a. To show: sikker-mengri, a show.
Sikkér, v. a. To show: sikker-mengri, a show.
Simen, s. a. Equal, alike. Sans. Samãna.
Simen, s. a. Equal, alike. Without. Same.
Simen. We are, it is we. Wal. Semeina (to resemble).
Simen. We are, it's us. Wal. Semeina (to look like).
Simmeno, s. Broth. See Zimmen.
Simmeno, s. Broth. See Zimmen.
Simmer, v. a. Pledge, pawn.
Simmer, v. a. Pledge, collateral.
Simmery-mengré, s. pl. Pawnbrokers.
Simmery-mengré, s. pl. Pawnshops.
Sis. Thou art: misto sis riddo, thou art well dressed.
Sis. You are: nice sis, you look great in that outfit.
Siva, v. a. To sew. Sans. Siv.
Siva, v. a. To sew. Sans. Siv.
Siva-mengri, s. A needle, sewing-thing.
Siva-mengri, s. A needle, sewing tool.
Siva-mengri, s. Sempstress.
Siva-mengri, s. Seamstress.
Siva-mengro, s. Tailor.
Siva-mengro, s. Tailor.
Skammen, s. Chair. Wal. Skaun. Mod. Gr. σκαμνί.
Skammen, s. Chair. Wal. Skaun. Mod. Gr. σκαμνί.
Skammen-engro, s. Chair-maker.
Chair maker
Skraunior, s. pl. Boots.
Skraunior, s. pl. Boots.
Slom / Slum, v. a. Follow, trace, track. Rus. Sliedovat.
Slom / Slum, v. a. Follow, trace, track. Rus. Sliedovat.
Smentini, s. Cream. Wal. Zmentenie. Rus. Smetána.
Smentini, s. Cream. Wal. Zmentenie. Rus. Sour cream.
So, pron. rel. Which, what: so se tute’s kairing, what are you doing?
So, pron. rel. Which, what: so what are you doing?
Sollibari, s. Bridle. Mod. Gr. συλληβάρι.
Sollibari, s. Bridle. Mod. Gr. συλληβάρι.
Sonakey / Sonneco, s. Gold. Sans. Svarna.
Sonakey / Sonneco, s. Gold. Sans. Svarna.
Sore / Soro, a. All, every. Sans. Sarva.
Sore / Soro, a. All, every. Without. Sarva.
Sorlo, a. Early. Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced] Sohr, Sahr (morning, day-break). Wal. Zorile.
Sorlo, a. Early. Arab. [Arabic which cannot be reproduced] Sohr, Sahr (morning, day-break). Wal. Zorile.
Soro-ruslo, a. Almighty. Dad soro-ruslo, Father Almighty.
Soro-ruslo, a. Almighty. Dad Soro-ruslo, Father Almighty.
Se se? Who is it?
Is anyone there? Who is it?
So si? What is it? So si ora, what’s o’clock?
So what? What is it? So what's the time?
Soskey, ad. Wherefore, for what.
Soskey, ad. Why, for what.
Sovaharri, s. Carpet, blanket.
Sovaharri, s. Carpet, throw.
Sove tuley. To lie down.
Sove tuley. To lie down.
Sovie, s. Needle. See Su.
Sovie, s. Needle. See Su.
Soving aley. Lying down to sleep.
Soving aley. Lying down to sleep.
Spikor, s. pl. Skewers. Wal. Spik.
Spikor, pl. Skewers. Wal. Spik.
Spinyor, s. pl. Carrots.
Spinyor, s. pl. Carrots.
Spinyor, s. pl. Pins. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Spinyor, s. pl. Pins. Span. Gyp. Chingabar (a pin).
Stadj, s. Hat.
Hat.
Stanya / Stanye, s. A stable. Hun. Sanya. Wal. Staula, steiníe (sheepfold).
Stanya / Stanye, s. A stable. Hun. Sanya. Wal. Staula, steiníe (sheepfold).
Stanya-mengro, s. Groom, stable-fellow.
Groom, stable buddy.
Stardo, part. pass. Imprisoned.
Stardo, part. pass. Locked up.
Staripen, s. Prison.
Staripen, s. Jail.
Staro-mengro, s. Prisoner.
Staro-mengro, s. Inmate.
Stannyi / Staunyo, s. A deer.
Stannyi / Staunyo, s. A deer.
Stiggur, s. Gate, turnpike. Old cant, Giger (a door).
Stiggur, s. Gate, toll road. Old slang, Giger (a door).
Stiggur-engro, s. Turnpike-keeper.
Turnpike keeper.
Stor, a. Four.
Store, a. Four.
Storey, s. Prisoner.
Storey, s. Inmate.
Stuggur, s. A stack.
Stuggur, s. A pile.
Su, s. Needle. Hun. Tü.
Su, s. Needle. Hun. Tü.
Subie / Subye, s. Needle: subye ta naval, needle and thread.
Subie / Subye, s. Needle: subye ta naval, needle and thread.
Sueti, s. People. Lithuanian, Swetas.
Sueti, s. People. Lithuanian, Swetas.
Sungella, v. It stinks.
Sungella, v. It smells.
Sutta / Suttur / Suta, s. Sleep. Sans. Subta (asleep). Hin. Sutta (sleeping). Lat. Sopitus.
Sutta / Suttur / Suta, s. Sleep. Sans. Subta (asleep). Hin. Sutta (sleeping). Lat. Sopitus.
Suttur-gillie, s. Sleep-song, lullaby.
Sleep song, lullaby.
Swegler / Swingle, s. Pipe.
Swegler / Swingle, s. Pipe.
Syeira. A female Gypsy name.
Syeira. A Romani female name.
p. 62T
Tã, conj. And.
Tã, conj. And.
Talleno, a. Woollen: talleno chofa, woollen or flannel petticoat.
Talleno, a. Woolen: talleno chofa, woolen or flannel petticoat.
Tan, s. Place, tent. Hun. Tanya.
Tan, s. Place, tent. Hun. Tanya.
Tard / Tardra, v. a. To raise, build, pull, draw: the kair is tardrad opré, the house is built; tard the chaw opré, pull up the grass. Hin. Tornã (to pluck). Wal. Tratze. Gaelic, Tarruinn.
Tard / Tardra, v. a. To raise, build, pull, draw: the kair is tardrad opré, the house is built; tard the chaw opré, pull up the grass. Hin. Tornã (to pluck). Wal. Tratze. Gaelic, Tarruinn.
Tardra-mengre. Hop-pickers.
Tardra-mengre. Harvest workers.
Tas, s. Cup, nest of a bird. See Dui tas, doo das.
Tas, s. Cup, bird's nest. See Dui tas, doo das.
Tasarla / Tasorlo, s. To-morrow. Lit. to-early. See Sorlo.
Tasarla / Tasorlo, s. Tomorrow. Lit. to-early. See Sorlo.
Tasarla, s. The evening. This word must not be confounded with the one which precedes it; the present is derived from the Wallachian Seari (evening), whilst the other is from the Arabic Sohr, Sahar (morning).
Tasarla, s. The evening. This word should not be confused with the one that comes before it; the current term comes from the Wallachian Seari (evening), while the other is derived from the Arabic Sohr, Sahar (morning).
Tassa-mengri, s. A frying-pan. See Tattra-mengri.
Tassa-mengri, s. A frying pan. See Tattra-mengri.
Tatchipen, s. Truth. Sans. Satyata.
Tatchipen, s. Truth. Sans. Satyata.
Tatcho, a. True. Sans. Sat.
Tatcho, a. True. Sans. Sat.
Tatti-pãni / Tatti-pauni, s. Brandy. Lit. hot water.
Tatti-pãni / Tatti-pauni, s. Brandy. Literally, hot water.
Tatti-pen, s. Heat.
Tatti-pen, s. Heat.
Tatto, a. Hot, warm. Sans. Tapta. Tap (to be hot). Gaelic, Teth.
Tatto, a. Hot, warm. Sans. Tapta. Tap (to be hot). Gaelic, Teth.
Tatto yeck, s. A hot un, or hot one; a stinging blow given in some very sensitive part.
Tatto yeck, s. A hot one, or a sharp one; a stinging hit delivered to a particularly sensitive area.
Tattra-mengri, s. A frying-pan.
Frying pan
Tawno m. / Tawnie f., a. Little, small, tiny. Sans. Tarana (young). Wal. Tienir (young). Lat. Tener. Span. Gyp. Chinoro.
Tawno m. / Tawnie f., a. Little, small, tiny. Sans. Tarana (young). Wal. Tienir (young). Lat. Tener. Span. Gyp. Chinoro.
Tawnie yecks, s. pl. Little ones, grandchildren.
Tawnie yecks, s. pl. Little kids, grandchildren.
Te, prep. To: te lesti, to her; this word is not properly Gypsy.
Te, prep. To: te lesti, to her; this word isn't really Gypsy.
Tel, v. a. imp. Hold: tel te jib, hold your tongue.
Tel, v. a. imp. Hold: tel te jib, keep your mouth shut.
Tem, s. Country.
Tem, s. Nation.
Temeskoe, a. Belonging to a country.
Temeskoe, a. Country-related.
Temno, a. Dark. Rus. Temnoy. Sans. Tama (darkness).
Temno, a. Dark. Rus. Temnoy. Sans. Tama (darkness).
Ten, s. See Tan.
Ten, s. See Tan.
Tikno, s. A child. Mod. Gr. τέκνον.
Tikno, s. A kid. Mod. Gr. τέκνον.
Tikno, a. Small, little. Span. Gyp. Chinoro. Lat. Tener.
Tikno, a. Small, little. Span. Gyp. Chinoro. Lat. Have.
Tippoty, a. Malicious, spiteful: tippoty drey mande, bearing malice against me.
Tippoty, a. Malicious, spiteful: tippoty drey mande, holding a grudge against me.
Tiro, pron. Thine.
Tiro, pron. Yours.
Tobbar, s. The Road; a Rapparee word. Boro-tobbarkillipen (the Game of High Toby—highway robbery). Irish, Tobar (a source, fountain).
Tobbar, s. The Road; a Rapparee word. Boro-tobbarkillipen (the Game of High Toby—highway robbery). Irish, Tobar (a source, fountain).
Tornapo. Name of a Gypsy man.
Tornapo. Name of a Romani man.
Tororo, s. A poor fellow, a beggar, a tramp. Sans. Daridrã.
Tororo, s. A poor guy, a beggar, a drifter. Sans. Daridrã.
Tove, v. a. To wash: tovipen, washing. Sans. Dhav.
Tove, v. a. To wash: tovipen, washing. Sans. Dhav.
Toving divvus, s. Washing day, Monday.
Washing day, Monday.
Traish, v. a. To frighten, terrify: it traishes mande, it frightens me.
Traish, v. a. To scare, terrify: it traishes mande, it scares me.
Trihool, s. Cross: Mi doveleskoe trihool, holy cross. Span. Gyp. Trijul. Hin. Trisool.
Trihool, s. Cross: My dove-like trihool, holy cross. Span. Gyp. Trijul. Hin. Trisool.
Trin, a. Three.
Trin, a. 3.
Tringrosh / Tringurushee, Shilling. Lit. three groats.
Tringrosh / Tringurushee, Shilling. Lit. three groats.
Tringurushengre, s. pl. Things costing a shilling.
Tringurushengre, s. pl. Things that cost a shilling.
Tringush, s. Shilling.
Tringush, s. Shilling.
Trito, a. Third. Sans. Tritïya.
Triton, a. Third. Sans. Tritiya.
Trufféni. Female Gypsy name: Trufféni Kaumlo, Jack Wardomescrés dieyas nav—Truffeni Lovel, the name of John Cooper’s mother. Mod. Gr. Τρυφωνία.
Trufféni. Female Gypsy name: Trufféni Kaumlo, Jack Wardomescrés dieyas nav—Truffeni Lovel, the name of John Cooper’s mother. Mod. Gr. Τρυφωνία.
Truppior, s. pl. Stays.
Truppior, s. pl. Supports.
Trupo, s. Body. Wal. Troup. Rus. Trup
Trupo, s. Body. Wal. Troup. Rus. Trup
Trushni, s. Faggot.
Trushni, s. Gay person.
Trusno, a. Thirsty, dry. Sans. Trishnaj.
Trusno, a. Thirsty, dry. Sans. Trishnaj.
Tud, s. Milk. Sans. Duh (to milk).
Tud, s. Milk. Sans. Duh (to milk).
Tudlo gueri. Milkmaid.
Teach war. Milkmaid.
Tug, a. Sad, afflicted.
Tug, a. Sad, troubled.
Tugnipen, s. Affliction.
Tugnipen, s. Condition.
Tugnis amande. Woe is me; I am sad.
Tugnis amande. I’m so sad; woe is me.
Tugno, a. Sad, mournful.
Tugno, a. Sad, sorrowful.
Tulé / Tuley, prep. Below, under: tuley the bor, under the hedge. Slavonian, dóly.
Tulé / Tuley, prep. Below, under: tuley the bor, under the hedge. Slavonian, dóly.
Tulipen, s. Fat, grease.
Fat, grease.
Tulo, a. Fat.
Tulo, a. Chubby.
Tute, pron. Accusative of Tu; generally used instead of the nominative.
Tute, pron. Accusative of Tu; typically used instead of the nominative.
Tuv, s. Smoke, tobacco.
Tuv, s. Smoke, nicotine.
Tuvalo / Tuvvalo, a. Smoky. Span. Gyp. Chibaló (a cigar).
Tuvalo / Tuvvalo, a. Smoky. Span. Gyp. Chibaló (a cigar).
V
Vangus, s. Finger. Sans. Angula.
Vangus, s. Finger. Without. Angle.
Vangustri, s. Ring. Sans. Angulika, anguri. See Wangustri.
Vangustri, s. Ring. Sans. Angulika, anguri. See Wangustri.
Vaneshu, s. Nothing. From the Wallachian Ba nitchi, not at all.
Vaneshu, s. Nothing. From the Wallachian Banitchi, not at all.
Var, s. Flour: var-engro, a miller. See Waro.
Var, s. Flour: var-engro, a miller. See Waro.
Vardo, s. Cart. See Wardo.
Vardo, s. Cart. See Wardo.
Vassavo / Vassavy, a. Bad, evil.
Vassavo / Vassavy, a. Bad, wicked.
Vast, s. Hand.
Vast, s. Hand.
Vava. An affix, by which the future of a verb is formed, as Heta-vava. It seems to be the Wallachian Wa-fi, he shall or will be.
Vava. An affix that forms the future tense of a verb, like Heta-vava. It appears to be the Wallachian Wa-fi, meaning he shall or will be.
Vellin, s. A bottle.
Vellin, s. A bottle.
Vauros, s. A city. Hun. Város. Sans. Puri. Hin. Poor. Wal. Orash.
Vauros, s. A city. Hun. Város. Sans. Puri. Hin. Poor. Wal. Orash.
Vénor / Vennor, Bowels, entrails. See Wendror,
Vénor / Vennor, Bowels, entrails. See Wendror,
p. 65W
Wafo, a. Another. Sans. Apara.
Wafo, a. Another. Without. Apara.
Wafo divvus, s. Yesterday. Lit. the other day.
Wafo divvus, s. Yesterday. Lit. the other day.
Wafo tem. Another country, foreign land.
Wafo tem. Another country, foreign land.
Wafo temeskoe mush, s. A foreigner, another countryman.
Wafo temeskoe mush, s. A foreigner, someone from another country.
Wafo tem-engre. Foreigners.
Wafo tem-engre. Foreigners.
Wafodu / Wafudo, a. Bad, evil.
Wafodu / Wafudo, a. Bad, evil.
Wafodúder. Worse: wafodúder than dovor, worse than they.
Wafodúder. Worse: wafodúder than dovor, worse than they.
Wafodu-pen, s. Wickedness.
Wafodu-pen, s. Evil.
Wafodu guero, s. The Evil One, Satan.
Wafodu guero, s. The Evil One, Satan.
Wafodu tan, s. Hell, bad place.
Wafodu tan, s. Hell, bad spot.
Wangar, s. Coals, charcoal. Sans. Angara. See Wongar.
Wangar, s. Coals, charcoal. Sans. Angara. See Wongar.
Wangustri, s. Ring.
Wangustri, s. Ring.
Warda, v. To guard, take care: warda tu coccorus, take care of yourself.
Warda, v. To guard, take care: warda tu coccorus, take care of yourself.
Wardo, s. Cart. Sans. Pattra.
Wardo, s. Cart. Sans. Pattra.
Wardo-mescro, s. Carter, cartwright, cooper, name of a Gypsy tribe.
Wardo-mescro, s. Carter, cartwright, cooper, name of a Gypsy group.
Waro, s. Flour.
Flour
Waro-mescro, s. Miller.
Waro-mescro, s. Miller.
Wast, s. Hand. See Vast. Wastrors, hands. Gaelic, Bas (the palm of the hand).
Wast, s. Hand. See Vast. Wastrors, hands. Gaelic, Bas (the palm of the hand).
Weggaulus / Welgorus / Welgaulus, s. A fair. Wal. Bieltchiou.
Weggaulus / Welgorus / Welgaulus, s. A fair. Wal. Bieltchiou.
Wel, v. a. He comes; from Ava. Sometimes used imperatively; e.g. Wel adrey, come in.
Wel, v. a. He comes; from Ava. Sometimes used as a command; e.g. Wel adrey, come in.
Welling páli. Coming back, returning from transportation.
Welling páli. Coming back, returning from incarceration.
Wen, s. Winter.
Wen, s. Winter.
Wendror, s. pl. Bowels, inside. Wal. Pentetche. Lat. Venter.
Wendror, s. pl. Bowels, insides. Wal. Pentetche. Lat. Venter.
Wentzelow. Name of a Gypsy man.
Wentzelow. Name of a Romani man.
Werriga, s. Chain. Rus. Veriga. Wal. Verigie (bolt).
Werriga, s. Chain. Rus. Veriga. Wal. Verigie (bolt).
Wesh, s. Forest, wood. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Wesh, s. Forest, wood. Pers. [Persian which cannot be reproduced]
Weshen-juggal, s. Fox. Lit. dog of the wood.
Weshen-juggal, s. Fox. Literally, dog of the woods.
Woddrus / Wuddrus, s. Bed. Hun. Gyp. Patos. Wal. Pat. The Spanish Gypsies retain the pure Indian word Charipé.
Woddrus / Wuddrus, s. Bed. Hun. Gyp. Patos. Wal. Pat. The Spanish Gypsies keep the original Indian word Charipé.
Wongar, s. Coal. Also a term for money; probably because Coal in the cant language signifies money. See Wangar.
Wongar, s. Coal. Also a term for money; probably because Coal in slang means money. See Wangar.
Wongar-camming mush, s. A miser. Lit. one who loves coal.
Wongar-camming mush, s. A miser. Literally, someone who loves coal.
Wuddur, s. Door. Span. Gyp. Burda. Wal. Poartie.
Wuddur, s. Door. Span. Gyp. Burda. Wal. Party.
Wuddur-mescro, s. Doorkeeper.
Wuddur-mescro, s. Doorkeeper.
Wust, v. a. To cast, throw.
Wust, v. a. To toss.
Wusto-mengro, s. Wrestler, hurler.
Wusto-mengro, s. Wrestler, athlete.
Y
Yack, s. Eye. Sans. Akshi. Germ. Auge. Rus. Oko. Lithuanian, Akis. Lat. Oculus.
Yack, s. Eye. Sans. Akshi. Germ. Auge. Rus. Oko. Lithuanian, Akis. Lat. Oculus.
Yackor. Eyes.
Yackor. Eyes.
Yag, s. Fire. Sans. Agni. Rus. Ogon. Lithuanian, Ugnis. Lat. Ignis. Irish, An (water, fire).
Yag, s. Fire. Sans. Agni. Rus. Ogon. Lithuanian, Ugnis. Lat. Ignis. Irish, An (water, fire).
Yag-engri, s. Gun, fire-thing.
Yag-engri, s. Gun, firing device.
Yag-engro / Yago-mengro, s. Gamekeeper, sportsman, fireman.
Yag-engro / Yago-mengro, s. Gamekeeper, athlete, firefighter.
Yag-kairepénes, s. Fireworks.
Fireworks.
Yag-vardo, s. Fire-car, railroad carriage.
Yag-vardo, s. Fire car, train carriage.
Yarb, s. Herb.
Yarrow, s. Herb.
Yarb-tan, s. Garden.
Garden.
Yeck, a. One. Sans. Eka. Hin. Yak.
Yeck, a. One. Sans. Eka. Hin. Yak.
Yeckoro, a. Only: yeckoro chavo, only son.
Yeckoro, a. Only: yeckoro chavo, only child.
Yeckorus, ad. Once.
Yeckorus, ad. Once.
Yo, pron. He.
Yo, pron. He.
Yoi, pron. She. Sometimes used for La or Las, her; e.g. Mande putch’d yoi, I asked she, her.
Yoi, pron. She. Sometimes used for La or Las, her; e.g. Mande putch’d yoi, I asked she, her.
Yora, s. Hour. See Ora.
Yora, s. Hour. See Ora.
Yoro, s. An egg. Wal. Ou.
Yoro, s. An egg. Wal. Ou.
Z
Zi, s. The heart, mind. Hun. Sziv. Sans. Dhi.
Zi, s. The heart, mind. Hun. Sziv. Sans. Dhi.
Zimmen, s. Broth. Wal. Zmenteni (cream).
Zimmen, s. Broth. Wal. Cream soup.
Zoomi, s. f. Broth, soup. Mod. Gr. ζουμὶ. Wal. Zamie (juice).
Zoomi, s. f. Broth, soup. Mod. Gr. ζουμὶ. Wal. Zamie (juice).
Zingaro. A Gypsy, a person of mixed blood, one who springs from various races, a made-up person. Sans. Sangkara, compositus (made-up).
Zingaro. A Gypsy, a person of mixed heritage, someone who comes from different races, a fictional person. Sans. Sangkara, compositus (fictional).
p. 71RHYMED LIST OF GYPSY VERBS
To dick and jin,
To bikn and kin;
To pee and hal,
And av and jal;
To kair and poggra,
Shoon and rokra;
To caur and chore,
Heta and cour,
Moar and more,
To drab and dook,
And nash on rook;
To pek and tove,
And sove and rove,
And nash on poove;
To tardra oprey,
And chiv aley;
To pes and gin,
To mang and chin,
To pootch and pukker,
Hok and dukker;
To besh and kel,
To del and lel,
And jib to tel;
Bitch, atch, and hatch,
Roddra and latch;
p. 72To gool
and saul,
And sollohaul;
To pand and wustra,
Hokta and plastra,
Busna and kistur,
Maila and grista;
To an and riggur;
To pen and sikker,
Porra and simmer,
Chungra and chingra,
Pude and grommena,
Grovena, gruvena;
To dand and choom,
Chauva and rom,
Rok and gare,
Jib and mer
With camova,
And paracrova,
Apasavello
And mekello,
And kitsi wasror,
Sore are lavior,
For kairing chomany,
In jib of Romany.
To dick and jin,
To bikn and kin;
To pee and hal,
And av and jal;
To kair and poggra,
Shoon and rokra;
To caur and chore,
Heta and cour,
Moar and more,
To drab and dook,
And nash on rook;
To pek and tove,
And sove and rove,
And nash on poove;
To tardra oprey,
And chiv aley;
To pes and gin,
To mang and chin,
To pootch and pukker,
Hok and dukker;
To besh and kel,
To del and lel,
And jib to tel;
Bitch, atch, and hatch,
Roddra and latch;
p. 72To gool
and saul,
And sollohaul;
To pand and wustra,
Hokta and plastra,
Busna and kistur,
Maila and grista;
To an and riggur;
To pen and sikker,
Porra and simmer,
Chungra and chingra,
Pude and grommena,
Grovena, gruvena;
To dand and choom,
Chauva and rom,
Rok and gare,
Jib and mer
With camova,
And paracrova,
Apasavello
And mekello,
And kitsi wasror,
Sore are lavior,
For kairing chomany,
In jib of Romany.
p. 73BETIE
ROKRAPENES
QUICK QUOTES
Whatever ignorance men may show,
From none disdainful turn;
For every one doth something know
Which you have yet to learn.No matter how ignorant people may seem,
Don't ignore anyone;
For everyone has some knowledge
That you haven't learned yet.
p. 76BETIE ROKRAPENES
So must I ker, daiya, to ker tute mistos?
So must I care, darling, to care about these mistakes?
It is my Dovvel’s kerrimus, and we can’t help asarlus.
It is my Dovvel’s kerrimus, and we can’t help asarlus.
Mi Dovvel opral, dick tuley opré mande.
Mi Dovvel operal, dick tuley operé mande.
If I could lel bonnek tute, het-avava tute.
If I could help you, I would.
Misto kedast tute.
Misto kedast tute.
Dovey si fino covar, ratfelo jukkal, sas miro.
Dovey is a fine place, ratfelo jukkal, just so.
The plastra-mengro sollohaul’d bango.
The plastra-mengro sollohaul’d bango.
Me camava jaw drey the Nevi Wesh to dick the purey Bare-mescrey.
Me camava jaw drey the Nevi Wesh to dick the purey Bare-mescrey.
You jin feter dovey oduvu.
You just won the lottery.
Will you pes for a coro levinor?
Will you pay for a choir member?
Mā pi kekomi.
Mā pi kekomi.
Mā rokra kekomi.
Mā rokra kekomi.
Bori shil se mande.
Bori rock from the mine.
Tatto tu coccori, pen.
Tattoo your cockerel, pen.
Kekkeno pawni dov odoi.
Kekkeno pawni dov odoi.
Sore simensar si men.
Sore simensar si men.
Tatto ratti se len.
Get tattoos from rats.
Wafudu lavior you do pen, miry deary Dovvel.
Wafudu lavior you do pen, miry deary Dovvel.
Kair pias to kair the gorgies sal.
Kair pias to kair the gorgies sal.
Nai men chior.
Nai men choir.
Misto sis riddo.
Misto is awesome.
Muk man av abri.
Muk man av abri.
Ma kair jaw.
Ma kair jaw.
Si covar ajaw.
Si covar ajaw.
An men posseymengri.
An men posseymengri.
Colliko sorlo me deavlis.
Colliko sorlo me deavlis.
Pukker zi te lesti.
Pukker is on your list.
Soving lasa.
Soving leaves.
Tatto si can.
Tattooing is possible.
Mande kinyo, nastis jalno durroder.
Mande kinyo, nastis jalno durroder.
Mã muk de gorgey jinnen sore lidan dovvu luvvu so garridan.
Mã muk de gorgey jinnen sore lidan dovvu luvvu so garridan.
Dui trins ta yeck ta pas.
Dui trins ta yeck ta pas.
Pes apopli.
Dog bite.
Chiv’d his vast adrey tiro putsi.
Chiv’d his vast adrey tiro putsi.
Penchavo chavo savo shan tu.
Penchavo chavo savo shan tu.
Kekkeno jinava mande ne burreder denne chavo.
Kekkeno jinava mande ne burreder denne chavo.
Aukko tu pios adrey Romanes.
Aukko tu pios adrey Romanes.
p. 77LITTLE SAYINGS
What must I do, mother, to make you well?
What do I need to do, Mom, to help you feel better?
It is my God’s doing, and we can’t help at all.
It’s what my God wants, and we can’t do anything about it.
My God above, look down upon me!
My God above, please look down on me!
If I could get hold of you, I would slay you.
If I could get my hands on you, I would kill you.
Thou hast done well.
You have done well.
That is a fine thing, you bloody dog, if it were mine.
That’s a great thing, you damn dog, if it were mine.
The Bow-street runner swore falsely.
The Bow Street Runner lied.
I will go into the New Forest to see the old Stanleys.
I will head into the New Forest to visit the old Stanleys.
You know better than that.
You know that's not right.
Will you pay for a pot of ale?
Will you buy a pitcher of beer?
Don’t drink any more.
Stop drinking.
Do not speak any more.
Stop talking.
I have a great cold.
I have a bad cold.
Warm thyself, sister.
Stay warm, sister.
There is no water there.
There's no water there.
We are all relations: all who are with us are ourselves.
We are all connected: everyone with us is a part of who we are.
They have hot blood.
They are passionate.
Evil words you do speak, O my dear God.
Evil words you speak, O my dear God.
Make fun, to make the Gentiles laugh.
Make jokes to make the non-Jews laugh.
I have no girls.
I don’t have any girls.
Thou art well dressed.
You are well dressed.
Let me come out.
Let me come out.
Don’t do so.
Don’t do that.
The thing is so: so it is.
The thing is this: so it is.
Bring me a fork.
Bring me a fork, please.
To-morrow morning I will give it.
To-morrow morning I will give it.
Tell her your mind.
Tell her how you feel.
Sleeping with her.
Sleeping with her.
The sun is hot.
The sun is intense.
I am tired, I can go no farther.
I’m exhausted; I can’t go any further.
Don’t let the Gentiles know all the money you took which you hid.
Don’t let the outsiders know about all the money you took and hid.
Seven pound ten.
Seven pounds ten.
Pay again.
Repay.
Put his hand into your pocket.
Put his hand in your pocket.
The boy is thinking who you are.
The boy is wondering who you are.
I know no more than a child.
I know just as much as a child.
Here’s your health in Romany!
Here’s your health in Romani!
p. 83COTORRES OF MI-DIBBLE’S LIL CHIV’D ADREY
ROMANES
SCRIPTURE EXCERPTS TRANSLATED INTO ROMANY
p. 85THE
FIRST DAY
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and empty, and darkness covered the deep waters. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. Then God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.
Drey the sherripen Midibble kair’d the temoprey tá the puv;
Tá the puv was chungalo, tá chichi was adrey lis;
Tá temnopen was oprey the mui of the boro put.
Tá Midibble’s bavol-engri besh’d oprey the pánior;
Tá Midibble penn’d: Mook there be dute! tá there was dute.
Tá Midibble dick’d that the doot was koosho-koshko.
Tá Midibble chinn’d enrey the dute tá the temnopen;
Tá Midibble kor’d the dute divvus, tá the temnopen kor’d yo rarde;
Tá the sarla, tá the sorlo were yeckto divvus.Drey the sheriff Midibble took the temporary to the pub;
The pub was lively, and the chatter was loud
Tempers were flaring over the noise of the crowd.
Midibble’s bag of tricks was spread out over the
piano;
Midibble said: Look, there’s trouble! and there was trouble.
Midibble thought the trouble was something serious.
Midibble pulled everyone into the trouble at the
tempers;
Midibble chased the trouble down, and the
tempers chased you around;
The bickering and arguments created quite the scene.
p. 86THE
FIFTH DAY
Genesis 1:20-23
Then Midibble penn’d; Mook sore the panior
Chinn tairie jibbing engris bute dosta,
Tá prey puv be bute dosta chiricles
To vol adrey the rek of the tarpe.Then Midibble wrote; Mook was in pain. Chinn was trying to help but didn’t quite succeed. It’s hard to see the strength of the prey to avoid dealing with the rest of the chaos.
Then Midibble kair’d the borie baulo-matches,
Tá sore covar that has jibbing zi adreylis,
The bute, bute tairie covars drey the panior
Sore yeck drey its genos kair’d Midibble,Then Midibble carried the dull baulo-matches,
that aching cover that has jumped in the [adreylis],
the bright, shiny tarry covers dry the panior.
Sore yeck dry its genos carried Midibble,The chiricles that vol adrey the tarpe
Sore yeck drey its genos kair’d he lende:
Then Midibble dick’d that sore was koosho-koshko,
And he chiv’d his koshto rokrapen opreylen:the chiricles that fly over the tarpe.
Sore yeck dry its genos kair’d he lende:
Then Midibble recognized that sore was koosho-koshko,
and he chiv’d his koshto rokrapen opreylen:Penn’d Midibble: Dey ye frute ever-komi,
Ever-komi be burreder your nummer,
Per with covars the panior tá durior,
Tá prey puv be burreder the chiricles!Midibble wrote: Dey ye frute ever-komi,
ever-komi be burreder your nummer,
Per with covars the panior tá durior,
tá prey puv be burreder the chiricles!Then was sarla tá sorlo panschto divvus.
Then it was Sarla's fifth birthday.
p. 87THE
CREATION OF MAN
Genesis 1:27-28
Then Mi-dibble kair’d Manoo drey his dikkipen,
Drey Mi-dibble’s dikkipen kair’d he leste;
Mush and mushi kair’d Dibble lende
And he chiv’d his koshto rokrapen opreylen:Then Mi-dibble carried Manoo through his struggles,
Through Mi-dibble’s struggles, he carried himself;
Mush and mushi carried Dibble around
And he kicked his trusty rock upward:Penn’d Mi-dibble: Dey ye frute ever-komi,
Ever-komi be burreder your nummer;
Per with chauves and chiyor the puvo
And oprey sore the puvo be krallior,Wrote Mi-dibble: Do you see the fruit coming,
Always coming and filling your numbers;
To pair with shadows and chill the air
And open sore the air to be clearer,Oprey the dooiya and its matches,
And oprey the chiricles of the tarpé,
And oprey soro covar that’s jibbing
And peers prey the mui of the puvo.Oprey the dooiya and its matches,
And oprey the chiricles of the tarpé,
And oprey soro covar that’s jibbing
And peers prey the mui of the puvo.
p. 88THE LORD’S PRAYER
Meery dearie Dad, sauvo jivves drey the tem oprey, be sharrafo teero nav, te awel teero tem, be kedo sore so caumes oprey ye poov, sar kairdios drey the tem oprey. Dey man to divvus meery divvuskey morro; tá for-dey mande mande’s pizzaripenes, sar mande fordeava wafor mushes lende’s pizzaripenes; mã mook te petrav drey kek tentacionos, but lel mande abri from sore wafodupen; for teero se o tem, Mi-dibble, teero o ruslopen, tá yi corauni knaw tá ever-komi. Si covar ajaw.
Merry dear Dad, save your hopes for the time to come, be sure to tell me everything, I want to know what happens when you move forward. The man plans to give me a great surprise tomorrow; he has this wonderful pizza recipe, and he needs my help with delicious toppings; I try to avoid any temptations, but I won't let them distract me; because there’s so much to do, I’m excited about what’s coming, I hope you’re doing well. Let’s keep in touch.
p. 89THE APOSTLES’ CREED
Apasavello drey Mi-dovel; Dad sore-ruslo savo kerdo o praio tem, tá cav acoi tulēy: tá drey lescro yekkero Chauvo Jesus Christus moro erray, beano of wendror of Mi-develeskey Geiry Mary; was curredo by the wast of Poknish Pontius Pilatos; was nash’d oprey ye Trihool; was mored, and chived adrey ye puve; jall’d tulēy ye temno drom ke wafudo tan, bengeskoe starriben; tá prey ye trito divvus jall’d yo oprey ke koshto tan, Mi-dovels ker; beshel yo knaw odoy prey Mi-dovels tatcho wast, Dad sore-ruslo; cad odoy avellava to lel shoonapen oprey jibben and merripen; Apasavello drey Mi-dibbleskey Ducos; drey the Bori Mi-develesky Bollisky Congri; that sore tatcho fokey shall jib in mestepen kettaney; that Mi-dibble will fordel sore wafudopenes; that soror mulor will jongor, and there will be kek merripen asarlus. Si covar ajaw. Avali.
Disciples of my Lord; God suffered His Son to be put on the cross, that He might show: that through the holy name of Jesus Christ, our Lord, born of the Virgin Mary; was crucified under the governor Pontius Pilate; was buried, and rose again on the third day; ascended into heaven; sits at the right hand of the Father, where He will come to judge the living and the dead; He will establish His kingdom; and His reign will have no end. Amen. Alleluia.
p. 91THE LORD’S PRAYER IN THE GYPSY DIALECT OF TRANSYLVANIA
p. 92Miro gulo Devel, savo hal oté ando Cheros, te avel swuntunos tiro nav; te avel catari tiro tem; te keren saro so cames oppo puv, sar ando Cheros. Dé man sekhonus miro diveskoe manro, ta ierta mangue saro so na he plaskerava tuke, sar me ierstavava wafo manuschengue saro so na plaskerelen mangue. Ma muk te petrow ando chungalo camoben; tama lel man abri saro doschdar. Weika tiro sin o tem, tiri yi potea, tiri yi proslava akana ta sekovar.
p. 92Miro said, "In my town, there are things that never change; there are people I know who are still here, and the stories that go back to this town. I have seen so many things in my life that it’s like I can feel them everywhere, just as in my town. It feels like I carry with me everything that makes me who I am, and I can't forget where I come from. But it's painful to walk along these streets; they bring me memories of what has been lost. Just like the sun that rises, things happen, and I celebrate what is happening now and remember what was."
Te del amen o gulo Del eg meschibo pa amara choribo.
Te del amen o gulo Del eg meschibo pa amara choribo.
Te vas del o Del amengue; te n’avel man pascotia ando drom, te na hoden pen mandar.
Te vas del o Del amengue; te n’avel man pascotia ando drom, te na hoden pen mandar.
Ja Develehi!
Az Develehi!
Ja Develeskey!
Az Develeskey!
Heri Devlis!
Ja Develehi!
Az Develehi!
Ja Develeskey!
Az Develeskey!
Heri Devlis!
p. 93My sweet God, who art there in Heaven, may thy name come hallowed; may thy kingdom come hither; may they do all that thou wishest upon earth, as in Heaven. Give me to-day my daily bread, and forgive me all that I cannot pay thee, as I shall forgive other men all that they do not pay me. Do not let me fall into evil desire; but take me out from all wickedness. For thine is the kingdom, thine the power, thine the glory now and ever.
p. 93My sweet God, who is in Heaven, may your name be honored; may your kingdom come here; may your will be done on earth as it is in Heaven. Give me today my daily bread, and forgive me for all that I owe you, just as I will forgive those who owe me. Do not let me fall into temptation, but deliver me from all evil. For yours is the kingdom, yours is the power, yours is the glory now and forever.
May the sweet God give us a remedy for our poverty.
May the kind God provide us with a solution for our poverty.
May God help us! May no misfortune happen to me in the road, and may no one steal anything me.
May God help us! May I face no misfortune on my journey, and may no one steal from me.
Go with God!
Stay with God!
Go, for God’s sake!
Stay, for God’s sake!
By God!
Go with God!
Stay with God!
Go, for the love of God!
Stay, for the love of God!
For God's sake!
p. 95LIL OF
ROMANO JINNYPEN
BOOK OF THE WISDOM OF THE EGYPTIANS
p. 96LIL OF ROMANO JINNYPEN
The tawno fokey often putches so koskipen se drey the Romano jib? Mande pens ye are sore dinneles; bute, bute koskipen se adrey lis, ta dusta, dosta of moro foky would have been bitcheno or nash’d, but for the puro, choveno Romano jib. A lav in Romany, penn’d in cheeros to a tawnie rakli, and rigg’d to the tan, has kair’d a boro kisi of luvvo and wafor covars, which had been chor’d, to be chived tuley pov, so that when the muskerres well’d they could latch vanisho, and had kek yeckly to muk the Romano they had lell’d opré, jal his drom, but to mang also his artapen.
The tawny folk often asked, "What's wrong with the Romani language?" I think you are really rude; but, if it weren’t for the lively Romani language, a lot of other folks would have been lost or forgotten. A love in Romani, written in songs to a beautiful girl, and connected to the land, has carried a great deal of love and heartfelt covers, which had been stolen, to be given back to the people, so that when the musicians played they could latch onto something meaningful, and had nothing to say about the Romani they had learned, except for his path, but also his art.
His bitchenipenskie cheeros is knau abri, and it were but kosko in leste to wel ken, if it were yeckly to lel care of lescri puri, choveny romady; she’s been a tatchi, tatchi romady to leste, and kek man apasavello that she has jall’d with a wafu mush ever since he’s been bitcheno.
His cool personality is well known, and it would be easy to see if he took care of his pure side; she's been a touchy subject lately, and it's clear that she has been struggling with some issues ever since he's been around.
When yeck’s tardrad yeck’s beti ten oprey, kair’d yeck’s beti yag anglo the wuddur, ta nash’d yeck’s kekauvi by the kekauviskey saster oprey lis, yeck kek cams that a dikkimengro or muskerro should p. 98wel and pen: so’s tute kairing acai? Jaw oprey, Romano juggal.
When your turn comes, your body should float on the water, letting your body be carried by the current while you learn how to swim. You should think that a diving or swimming lesson could be helpful for you. So, are you taking care of yourself? Yes, go ahead, my friend.
Prey Juliken yeckto Frydivvus, anglo nango muyiskie staunyi naveni kitchema, prey the chong opral Bororukeskoe Gav, drey the Wesh, tute dickavavasa bute Romany foky, mushor ta juvar, chalor ta cheiar.
Prey Juliken yeckto Frydivvus, anglo nango muyiskie staunyi naveni kitchema, prey the chong opral Bororukeskoe Gav, drey the Wesh, tute dickavavasa bute Romany foky, mushor ta juvar, chalor ta cheiar.
Jinnes tu miro puro prala Rye Stanniwix, the puro rye savo rigs a bawlo-dumo-mengri, ta kair’d desh ta stor mille barior by covar-plastring?
Jinnes tu miro puro prala Rye Stanniwix, the puro rye savo rigs a bawlo-dumo-mengri, ta kair’d desh ta stor mille barior by covar-plastring?
He jall’d on rokkring ta rokkring dinneleskoenaes till mande pukker’d leste: if tute jasas on dovodoiskoenaes mande curavava tute a tatto yeck prey the nok.
He shouted on rocking the rocking chairs until he made a sound: if you touched the chairs, you’d see how everything gets noisy in the night.
You putches mande so si patrins. Patrins are Romany drom sikkering engris, by which the Romany who jal anglo muk lende that wels palal jin the drom they have jall’d by: we wusts wastperdes of chaw oprey the puv at the jalling adrey of the drom, or we kairs sar a wangust a trihool oprey the chik, or we chins ranior tuley from the rukhies, and chivs lende oprey drey the puv aligatas the bor; but the tatcho patrin is wast-perdes of leaves, for patrin or patten in puro Romano jib is the uav of a rukheskoe leaf.
You put together so many paths. Paths are Romani ways of marking places, through which the Romani who speak English can find their way along the paths they've traveled: we must place markers on the ground at the beginning of the path, or we can create a sign on a tree, or we can use natural materials from the surroundings, and point the way with natural markers along the route; but the main path is made of leaves, because 'path' or 'mark' in pure Romani language is the way of a leafy tree.
The tatcho drom to be a jinney-mengro is to shoon, dick, and rig in zi.
The path to being a true streetwise person is to walk, talk, and act with confidence.
The lil to lel oprey the kekkeno mushe’s puvior and to keir the choveno foky mer of buklipen and shillipen, is wusted abri the Raioriskey rokkaring ker.
The lil to lel oprey the kekkeno mushe’s puvior and to keir the choveno foky mer of buklipen and shillipen, is wusted abri the Raioriskey rokkaring ker.
The nav they dins lati is Bokht drey Cuesni, because she rigs about a cuesni, which sore the rardies when she jals keri, is sure to be perdo of chored covars.
The nav they dins lati is Bokht drey Cuesni, because she rigs about a cuesni, which sore the rardies when she jals keri, is sure to be perdo of chored covars.
Cav acoi, pralor, se the nav of a lil, the sherrokairipen of a puro kladjis of Roumany tem. The Borobeshemescrotan, or the lav-chingaripen between ye jinneynengro ta yi sweti; or the merripenskie rokrapen chiv’d by the zi oprey the trupo.
Cav acoi, pralor, se the nav of a lil, the sherrokairipen of a puro kladjis of Roumany tem. The Borobeshemescrotan, or the lav-chingaripen between ye jinneynengro ta yi sweti; or the merripenskie rokrapen chiv’d by the zi oprey the trupo.
When the shello was about his men they rigg’d leste his artapen, and muk’d leste jal; but from dovo divvus he would rig a men-pangushi kekkomi, for he penn’d it rigg’d to his zee the shello about his men.
When the leader was with his men, they set up their equipment, and prepared their gear; but from that day on, he would guide a crew of skilled sailors, as he directed them around his territory with authority.
Jack Vardomescro could del oprey dosta to jin sore was oprey the mea-bars and the drom-sikkering engris.
Jack Vardomescro could develop something to join the measure-bars and the drum-sickering engravings.
The Romano drom to pek a chiriclo is to kair it oprey with its porior drey chik, and then to chiv it adrey the yag for a beti burroder than a posh ora. When the chik and the hatch’d porior are lell’d from the chiriclesky trupos, the per’s p. 102chinn’d aley, and the wendror’s wusted abri, ’tis a hobben dosta koshto for a crallissa to hal without lon.
The road to pick a chicken is to carry it over with its previous dead chick, and then to shove it away across the yard for a better border than a fancy orange. When the chick and the hatched previous are yelled from the chicken coop, the person’s p. 102chinned alley, and the vendor’s twisted area, it’s a ridiculous cost for a waitress to handle without a loan.
When Gorgio mushe’s merripen and Romany Chal’s merripen wels kettaney, kek kosto merripen see.
When Gorgio's people die and Romany Chal's people die, there's no cost for a funeral.
Yeckorus he pukker’d mande that when he was a bis beschengro he mored a gorgio, and chived the mulo mas tuley the poov; he was lell’d oprey for the moripen, but as kekkeno could latch the shillo mas, the pokiniuses muk’d him jal; he penn’d that the butsi did not besh pordo pré his zi for bute chiros, but then sore on a sudden he became tugnis and atraish of the mulo gorgio’s bavol-engro, and that often of a rarde, as he was jalling posh motto from the kitchema by his cocoro, he would dick over his tatcho pikko and his bango pikko, to jin if the mulo mush’s bavol-engro was kek welling palal to lel bonnek of leste.
Yeckorus, he was a bit of a character, who when he was in a bad mood, he scared a stranger and chased the poor guy out of the place; he was told to behave for the morning, but since no one could control him, the folks kept him in check. He claimed that the place didn’t mean much to him for his own reasons, but then suddenly he became cautious and aware of the stranger’s behavior, and that often, as he was cooking something from the kitchen by himself, he would look over his shoulder and his back to see if the stranger’s behavior was really threatening to his comfort.
Does tute jin the Romano drom of lelling the wast?
Does it help in the Roman way of telling the past?
Avali, prala.
Avali, bro.
Sikker mande lis.
Safe man list.
They kairs it ajaw, prala.
They carry it away, okay.
A chorredo has burreder peeas than a Romany Chal.
A chorredo has better peas than a Romany Chal.
Tute has shoon’d the lav pazorrus. Dovodoy is so is kored gorgikonaes “Trusted.” Drey the puro cheeros the Romano savo lelled lovvu, or wafor covars from lescro prala in parriken, ta p. 104kek pess’d leste apopli, could be kair’d to buty for leste as gry, mailla or cost-chinnimengro for a besh ta divvus. To divvus kek si covar ajaw. If a Romano lelled lovvu or wafu covars from meero vast in parriken, ta kek pessed mande apopli, sar estist for mande te kair leste buty as gry, mailla, or cost-chinnimengro for mande for yek divvus, kek to pen for sore a besh?
Tute has shown the lav pazorrus. Dovodoy is so is kored gorgikonaes “Trusted.” Drey the puro cheeros the Romano savo lelled lovvu, or wafor covars from lescro prala in parriken, ta p. 104kek pess’d leste apopli, could be kair’d to buty for leste as gry, mailla or cost-chinnimengro for a besh ta divvus. To divvus kek si covar ajaw. If a Romano lelled lovvu or wafu covars from meero vast in parriken, ta kek pessed mande apopli, sar estist for mande te kair leste buty as gry, mailla, or cost-chinnimengro for mande for yek divvus, kek to pen for sore a besh?
Do you nav cavacoi a weilgorus? Ratfelo rinkeno weilgorus cav acoi: you might chiv lis sore drey teero putsi.
Do you know how to look after a well? If you don't look after it, you might end up with sore trouble down the line.
Kek jinnipenskey covar sé to pen tute’s been bango. If tute pens tute’s been bango, foky will pen: Estist tute’s a koosho koshko mushipen, but tatchipé a ratfelo dinnelo.
Kek jinnipenskey covar sé to pen tute’s been bango. If tute pens tute’s been bango, foky will pen: Estist tute’s a koosho koshko mushipen, but tatchipé a ratfelo dinnelo.
Car’s tute jibbing?
Car's engine misfiring?
Mande’s kek jibbing; mande’s is atching, at the feredest; mande’s a pirremengri, prala!
Mande’s kek jibbing; mande’s is atching, at the feredest; mande’s a pirremengri, prala!
Cauna Romany foky rokkerelan yeck sar wafu penelan pal ta pen; cauna dado or deya rokkerelan ke lendes chauves penelan meero chauvo or meeri chi; or my child, gorgikonaes, to ye dui; cauna chauves rokkerelan te dad or deya penelan meero dad or meeri deya!
Cauna Romany foky rokkerelan yeck sar wafu penelan pal ta pen; cauna dado or deya rokkerelan ke lendes chauves penelan meero chauvo or meeri chi; or my child, gorgikonaes, to ye dui; cauna chauves rokkerelan te dad or deya penelan meero dad or meeri deya!
Meero dado, soskey were creminor kair’d? Meero chauvo, that puvo-baulor might jib by haIling lende. Meero dado, soskey were puvobaulor kair’d? Meero chauvo, that tute and mande might jib by lelling lende. Meero dado, soskey were tu ta mande kair’d? Meero chauvo, that creminor might jib by halling mende.
Meero dado, were you carrying me? Meero chauvo, that puvo-baulor might get lost by calling lende. Meero dado, were you carrying puvobaulor? Meero chauvo, that tute and mande might get lost by telling lende. Meero dado, were you carrying tu ta mande? Meero chauvo, that creminor might get lost by calling mende.
Kekkeni like Romano Will’s rawnie for kelling drey a chauro.
Kekkeni likes Romano Will’s rawnie for killing dreary a chauro.
Cauna Constance Petulengri merr’d she was shel tã desch beshor puri.
Cauna Constance Petulengri married, she was shel tã desch beshor puri.
Does tute jin Rawnie Wardomescri?
Does Tute Jin Rawnie Wardomescri?
Mande jins lati misto, prala.
Mande jins to the mist, please.
Does tute cam lati?
Does the tutor cam later?
Mande cams lati bute, prala; and mande has dosta, dosta cheeros penn’d to the wafor Romany Chals, when they were rokkering wafudo of lati: She’s a rawnie; she lels care of sore of you; if it were kek for lati, you would sore jal to the beng.
Mande cams lati bute, prala; and mande has dosta, dosta cheeros penn’d to the wafor Romany Chals, when they were rokkering wafudo of lati: She’s a rawnie; she lels care of sore of you; if it were kek for lati, you would sore jal to the beng.
So kerella for a jivipen?
So, is kerella for a jivipen?
She dukkers, prala; she dukkers.
She ducks, prala; she ducks.
Can she dukker misto?
Can she deal with this?
There’s kekkeny Romany juva tuley the can for dukkering sar Rawnie Wardomescri; nastis not to be dukker’d by lati; she’s a tatchi chovahan; she lels foky by the wast and dukkers lende, whether they cams or kek.
There’s kekkeny Romany juva tuley the can for dukkering sar Rawnie Wardomescri; nastis not to be dukker’d by lati; she’s a tatchi chovahan; she lels foky by the wast and dukkers lende, whether they cams or kek.
Kek koskipen si to jal roddring after Romany Chals. When tute cams to dick lende nestist to latch yeck o’ lende; but when tute’s penching o’ wafor covars tute dicks o’ lende dosta dosta.
Kek koskipen si to jal roddring after Romany Chals. When tute cams to dick lende nestist to latch yeck o’ lende; but when tute’s penching o’ wafor covars tute dicks o’ lende dosta dosta.
If he had been bitcheno for a boro luripen mande would have penn’d chi; but it kairs mande diviou to pentch that he was bitcheno, all along of a bori lubbeny, for trin tringurishis ta posh.
If he had been talking about a bad situation, I would have understood; but it makes me upset to realize that he was complaining, all because of a big change, for trying to show off.
When he had kair’d the moripen, he kair’d sig and plastrar’d adrey the wesh, where he gared himself drey the hev of a boro, puro rukh; but it was kek koskipen asarlus; the plastra-mengres slomm’d his piré sore along the wesh till they well’d to the rukh.
When he had taken care of the situation, he took a deep breath and headed down the path, where he positioned himself in front of a tree, a pure sight; but it was no easy task; the healing ointment stung his skin along the path until it reached the tree.
Sau kisi foky has tute dukker’d to divvus?
Sau kisi foky has tute dukker’d to divvus?
Yeck rawnie coccori, prala; dov ody she wels palal; mande jins lati by the kaulo dori prey laki shubba.
Yeck rawnie coccori, prala; dov ody she wels palal; mande jins lati by the kaulo dori prey laki shubba.
Sau bute luvvu did she del tute?
Sau bute luvvu did she del tute?
Yeck gurush, prala; yeck gurush coccoro. The beng te lilly a truppy!
Yeck gurush, prala; yeck gurush coccoro. The beng te lilly a truppy!
Shoon the kosko rokkrapen so Micail jinney-mengro penn’d ke Rawnie Trullifer: Rawnie Trollopr, you must jib by your jibben: and if a base se tukey you must chiv lis tuley.
Shoon the kosko rokkrapen so Micail jinney-mengro penn’d ke Rawnie Trullifer: Rawnie Trollopr, you must jib by your jibben: and if a base se tukey you must chiv lis tuley.
Can you rokkra Romanes?
Can you speak Romani?
Avali, prala!
Avali, dude!
So si Weshenjuggalslomomengreskeytemskey tudlogueri?
So is Weshenjuggalslomomengreskeytemskey tudlogueri?
Mande don’t jin what you pens, prala.
Mande don’t jin what you pens, prala.
Then tute is kek Romano lavomengro.
Then tute is kek Romano lavomengro.
p. 97BOOK OF THE WISDOM OF THE EGYPTIANS
The young people often ask: What good is there in the Romany tongue? I answers: Ye are all fools! There is plenty, plenty of good in it, and plenty, plenty of our people would have been transported or hung, but for the old, poor Roman language. A word in Romany said in time to a little girl, and carried to the camp, has caused a great purse of money and other things, which had been stolen, to be stowed underground; so that when the constables came they could find nothing, and had not only to let the Gypsy they had taken up go his way, but also to beg his pardon.
The young people often ask: What’s the point of speaking Romany? I say: You’re all missing the point! There’s a lot of value in it, and many of our people would have been transported or executed if it weren't for the old, simple Romany language. A timely word in Romany to a little girl, passed to the camp, led to a stash of stolen money and other items being hidden away. So when the police arrived, they found nothing and not only had to let the Gypsy they arrested go, but also had to apologize to him.
His term of transportation has now expired, and it were but right in him to come home, if it were only to take care of his poor old wife: she has been a true, true wife to him, and I don’t believe that she has taken up with another man ever since he was sent across.
His time of transportation has now ended, and it would be only right for him to come home, even if it's just to take care of his poor old wife. She has been a truly devoted wife to him, and I don’t believe she has been with another man since he was sent away.
When one’s pitched up one’s little tent, made one’s little fire before the door, and hung one’s kettle by the kettle-iron over it, one doesn’t like that an inspector or constable should come and p. 99say: What are you doing here? Take yourself off, you Gypsy dog.
When you’ve set up your little tent, made your small fire in front of it, and hung your kettle on the hook over the flames, you really don’t want some inspector or cop to show up and say: What are you doing here? Get lost, you Gypsy dog.
On the first Friday of July, before the public-house called the Bald-faced Stag, on the hill above the town of the great tree in the Forest, you will see many Roman people, men and women, lads and lasses.
On the first Friday of July, in front of the pub called the Bald-faced Stag, on the hill above the town with the big tree in the Forest, you'll see lots of Romans, both men and women, boys and girls.
Do you know my old friend Mr. Stanniwix, the old gentleman that wears a pigtail, and made fourteen thousand pounds by smuggling?
Do you know my old friend Mr. Stanniwix, the old guy with a pigtail, who made fourteen thousand pounds from smuggling?
He went on talking and talking foolishness till I said to him: If you goes on in that ’ere way I’ll hit you a hot ’un on the nose.
He kept rambling on about nonsense until I said to him: If you keep going on like that, I’ll punch you in the nose.
You ask me what are patrins. Patrin is the name of the signs by which the Gypsies who go before show the road they have taken to those who follow behind. We flings handfuls of grass down at the head of the road we takes, or we makes with the finger a cross-mark on the ground, we sticks up branches of trees by the side the hedge. But the true patrin is handfuls of leaves flung down; for patrin or patten in old Roman language means the leaf of a tree.
You want to know what patrins are. Patrin refers to the signs that Gypsies leave behind to show the path they’ve taken to those who follow. We throw handfuls of grass at the start of the road we take, or we make a cross-mark on the ground with our fingers, or we stick up tree branches by the side of the hedge. But the true patrin is tossing down handfuls of leaves; the word patrin or patten in ancient Roman language means the leaf of a tree.
The true way to be a wise man is to hear, see, and bear in mind.
The real way to be wise is to listen, observe, and remember.
The man who can't control his tongue and his temper isn't fit to be around others.p. 101
The Bill to take up the no-man’s lands (comons), and to make the poor people die of hunger and cold, has been flung out of the House of Commons.
The bill to take over the no-man's lands (commons) and let poor people suffer from hunger and cold has been rejected by the House of Commons.
The name they gives her is “Luck in a basket,” because she carries about a basket, which every night, when she goes home, is sure to be full of stolen property.
The name they give her is “Luck in a basket” because she carries a basket that’s always full of stolen goods every night when she goes home.
This here, brothers, is the title of a book, the head-work of an old king of Roumany land: the Tribunal, or the dispute between the wise man and the world: or, the death-sentence passed by the soul upon the body.
This, brothers, is the title of a book, the main work of an old king from Romania: The Tribunal, or the argument between the wise man and the world: or, the death sentence issued by the soul against the body.
When the rope was about his neck they brought him his pardon, and let him go; but from that day he would wear a neck-kerchief no more, for he said it brought to his mind the rope about his neck.
When the rope was around his neck, they brought him his pardon and set him free; but from that day on, he refused to wear a neckerchief again, because it reminded him of the rope around his neck.
Jack Cooper could read enough to know all that was upon the milestones and the sign-posts.
Jack Cooper could read well enough to understand everything written on the milestones and signposts.
The Roman way to cook a fowl is to do it up with its feathers in clay, and then to put it in fire for a little more than half an hour. When the clay and the burnt feathers are taken from the fowl, the belly cut open, and the inside p. 103flung out, ’tis a food good enough for a queen to eat without salt.
The Roman method for cooking a bird is to cover it in clay with its feathers still on and then put it in the fire for just over thirty minutes. Once the clay and burnt feathers are removed from the bird, the belly is cut open, and the insides p. 103are thrown out; it’s a meal fit for a queen, even without salt.
When the Gentile way of living and the Gypsy way of living come together, it is anything but a good way of living.
When the lifestyles of non-Jews and Gypsies merge, it results in anything but a positive way of living.
He told me once that when he was a chap of twenty he killed a Gentile, and buried the dead meat under ground. He was taken up for the murder, but as no one could find the cold meat, the justices let him go. He said that the job did not sit heavy upon his mind for a long time, but then all of a sudden he became sad, and afraid of the dead Gentile’s ghost; and that often of a night, as he was coming half-drunk from the public-house by himself, he would look over his right shoulder and over his left shoulder, to know if the dead man’s ghost was not coming behind to lay hold of him.
He once told me that when he was twenty, he killed a non-Jew and buried the body underground. He was arrested for the murder, but since no one could find the body, the courts let him go. He said that for a while, it didn’t weigh on his conscience, but then suddenly he became sad and scared of the dead man's ghost. He often mentioned that late at night, as he made his way home half-drunk from the bar, he would look over his right shoulder and then over his left to see if the ghost was following him.
Do you know the Gypsy way of taking the hand?
Do you know the Gypsy method of reading palms?
Aye, aye, brother.
Yeah, yeah, brother.
Show it to me.
Show it to me.
They does it so, brother.
They do it so, brother.
A tramp has more fun than a Gypsy.
A drifter has more fun than a gypsy.
You have heard the word pazorrus. That is what is called by the Gentiles “trusted,” or in debt. In the old time the Roman who got from his brother money or other things on trust, and p. 105did not pay him again, could be made to work for him as horse, ass, or wood cutter for a year and a day. At present the matter is not so. If a Roman got money, or other things, from my hand on credit, and did not repay me, how could I make him labour for me as horse, ass, or stick-cutter for one day, not to say for a year?
You’ve heard the word pazorrus. That’s what the Gentiles call “trusted,” or in debt. Back in the day, if a Roman borrowed money or other goods from his brother and didn’t pay him back, he could be forced to work for him as a horse, donkey, or woodcutter for a year and a day. Nowadays, it’s not like that. If a Roman borrowed money or other goods from me on credit and didn’t pay me back, how could I make him work for me as a horse, donkey, or woodcutter for even one day, let alone a year?
Do you call this a fair? A very pretty fair is this: you might put it all into your pocket.
Do you call this a fair? This is a very nice fair: you could fit it all into your pocket.
It is not a wise thing to say you have been wrong. If you allow you have been wrong, people will say: You may be a very honest fellow, but are certainly a very great fool.
It’s not a smart move to admit you were wrong. If you acknowledge your mistakes, people will say: You might be an honest person, but you’re definitely a huge fool.
Where are you living?
Where are you staying?
Mine is not living; mine is staying, to say the best of it; I am a traveller, brother!
Mine isn’t living; mine is just existing, if I’m being honest; I’m a traveler, brother!
When Roman people speak to one another, they say brother and sister. When parents speak to their children, they say, my son, or my daughter, or my child, gorgiko-like, to either. When children speak to their parents, they say, my father, or my mother.
When Romans talk to each other, they call each other brother and sister. When parents talk to their kids, they say my son, my daughter, or my child, like gorgiko, to either one. When kids talk to their parents, they say my father or my mother.
My father, why were worms made? My son, that moles might live by eating them. My father, why were moles made? My son, that you and I might live by catching them. My father, why were you and I made? My son, that worms might live by eating us.
My father, why were worms created? My son, so that moles can survive by eating them. My father, why were moles created? My son, so that you and I can live by catching them. My father, why were you and I created? My son, so that worms can survive by eating us.
No one like Gypsy Will’s wife for dancing in a platter.
No one danced on a platter like Gypsy Will's wife.
When Constance Smith died, she was a hundred ten years old.
When Constance Smith passed away, she was 110 years old.
Do you know Mrs. Cooper?
Do you know Mrs. Cooper?
I knows her very well, brother.
I know her very well, brother.
Do you like her?
Do you like her?
I loves her very much, brother; and I have often, often said to the other Gypsies, when they speaking ill of her: She’s a gentlewoman; takes care of all of you; if it were not for her, you would all go to the devil.
I love her so much, brother; and I have often, often told the other Gypsies, when they spoke poorly of her: She's a respectable woman; takes care of all of you; if it weren't for her, you would all be in trouble.
What does she do for a living?
What does she do for work?
She tells fortunes, brother; she tells fortunes.
She reads fortunes, brother; she reads fortunes.
Is she a good hand at fortune-telling?
Is she good at reading fortunes?
There’s no Roman woman under the sun so good at fortune-telling as Mrs. Cooper; it is impossible not to have your fortune told by her; she’s a true witch; she takes people by the hand, and tells their fortunes, whether they will or no.
There’s no Roman woman around who’s as good at fortune-telling as Mrs. Cooper; it’s just not possible to avoid having your fortune told by her; she’s a real witch; she grabs people by the hand and tells their fortunes, whether they want her to or not.
’Tis no use to go seeking after Gypsies. When you wants to see them ’tis impossible to find one of them; but when you are thinking of other matters you see plenty, plenty of them.
It’s pointless to go looking for Gypsies. When you want to see them, it’s impossible to find even one; but when you’re focused on other things, you’ll see lots of them everywhere.
If he had been transported for a great robbery, I would have said nothing; but it makes me mad to think that he has been sent away, all along of a vile harlot, for the value of three-and-sixpence.
If he had been sent away for a serious robbery, I wouldn't have said a word; but it drives me crazy to think he’s been exiled, all because of a disgusting con artist, for just three and sixpence.
When he had committed the murder he made haste, and ran into the wood, where he hid himself in the hollow of a great old tree; but it was no use at all; the runners followed his track all along the forest till they came to the tree.
When he committed the murder, he quickly ran into the woods, where he hid in the hollow of a large old tree; but it was pointless; the searchers followed his trail through the forest until they reached the tree.
How many fortunes have you told to-day?
How many fortunes have you told today?
Only one lady’s, brother; yonder she’s coming back; I knows her by the black lace on her gown.
Only one lady’s, brother; there she’s coming back; I know her by the black lace on her dress.
How much money did she give you?
How much money did she give you?
Only one groat, brother; only one groat. May the devil run away with her bodily!
Only one groat, brother; just one groat. May the devil take her away for good!
Hear the words of wisdom which Mike the Grecian said to Mrs. Trullifer: Mrs. Trollopr, you must live by your living; and if you have a pound you must spend it.
Hear the words of wisdom that Mike the Grecian said to Mrs. Trullifer: Mrs. Trullifer, you need to live according to your means; and if you have a pound, you must spend it.
Can you speak Romany?
Can you speak Romani?
Aye, aye, brother!
Yeah, yeah, bro!
What is Weshenjuggalslomomengreskeytemskeytudlogueri?
What is Weshenjuggalslomomengreskeytemskeytudlogueri?
I don’t know what you say, brother.
I don’t know what you mean, bro.
Then you are no master of Romany.
Then you are not a master of Romany.
p. 111ROMANE NAVIOR OF TEMES AND GAVIOR
GYPSY NAMES OF COUNTRIES AND TOWNS
Bitcheno padlengreskey tem Bitcheno padlengreskey tem |
Transported fellows’ country, Botany Bay Transported prisoners' country, Botany Bay |
Bokra-mengreskey tem Bokra-mengreskey tem |
Shepherds’ country, Sussex Shepherds' area, Sussex |
Bori-congriken gav Bori-congriken gave |
Great church town, York Great city of York |
Boro-rukeneskey gav Boro-rukeneskey gav |
Great tree town, Fairlop Great tree town, Fairlop |
Boro gueroneskey tem Boro guerroneskey tem |
Big fellows’ country, Northumberland Northumberland, the land of giants |
Chohawniskey tem Chohawniskey tem |
Witches’ country, Lancashire Witches’ land, Lancashire |
Choko-mengreskey gav Choco-mengreskey gave |
Shoemakers’ town, Northampton Shoe Town, Northampton |
Churi-mengreskey gav Churi-mengreskey gave |
Cutlers’ town, Sheffield Sheffield, the cutlery capital |
Coro-mengreskey tem Coro-mengreskey has |
Potters’ country, Staffordshire Potters' region, Staffordshire |
Cosht-killimengreskey tem Cosht-killimengreskey tem |
Cudgel players’ country, Cornwall Cornwall, home of cudgel players |
Curo-mengreskey gav Curo-mengreskey gav |
Boxers’ town, Nottingham Boxers' city, Nottingham |
Dinelo tem Dinelo has |
Fools’ country, Suffolk Fools' country, Suffolk |
Giv-engreskey tem Giv-engreskey tem |
Farmers’ country, Buckinghamshire Farmers' area, Buckinghamshire |
Gry-engreskey gav Gry-engreskey gave |
Horsedealers’ town, Horncastle Horse dealers' town, Horncastle |
Guyo-mengreskey tem Guyo-mengreskey tem |
Pudding-eaters’ country, Yorkshire Yorkshire, land of puddings |
Hindity-mengreskey tem Hindity-mengreskey tem |
Dirty fellows’ country, Ireland Ireland, a land of mischief |
Jinney-mengreskey gav Jinney-mengreskey gav |
Sharpers’ town, Manchester Sharpeners’ town, Manchester |
Juggal-engreskey gav Juggalos gather |
Dog-fanciers’ town, Dudley Dog lovers' town, Dudley |
Juvlo-mengreskey tem Juvlo-mengreskey tem |
Lousy fellows’ country, Scotland Bad guys' country, Scotland |
Kaulo gav Kaulo gave |
The black town, Birmingham The majority-black city, Birmingham |
Levin-engriskey tem Levin-engriskey tem |
Hop country, Kent Hop country, Kent |
Lil-engreskey gav Lil-engreskey gave |
Book fellows’ town, Oxford Oxford, town of scholars |
Match-eneskey gav Match-eneskey gav |
Fishy town, Yarmouth Fishy town, Yarmouth |
Mi-krauliskey gav Mi-krauliskey gav |
Royal town, London Royal borough, London |
Nashi-mescro gav Nashi-mescro gives |
Racers’ town, Newmarket Racecar town, Newmarket |
Pappin-eskey tem Pappin-eskey team |
Duck country, Lincolnshire Duck country, Lincolnshire |
Paub-pawnugo tem Paub-pawnugo tem |
Apple-water country, Herefordshire Apple cider country, Herefordshire |
Porrum-engreskey tem Porrum-engreskey tem |
Leek-eaters’ country, Wales Wales, land of leek eaters |
Pov-engreskey tem Pov-engreskey is tem |
Potato country, Norfolk Potato region, Norfolk |
Rashayeskey gav Rashayeskey gave |
Clergyman’s town, Ely Ely, the clergyman's town |
Rokrengreskey gav Rokrengreskey gave |
Talking fellows’ town, Norwich Talking guys' town, Norwich |
Shammin-engreskey gav Shammin-engreskey gav |
Chairmakers’ town, Windsor Windsor, the chairmakers' town |
Tudlo tem Tudlo theme |
Milk country, Cheshire Dairy region, Cheshire |
Weshen-eskey gav Weshen-eskey gave |
Forest town, Epping Epping, a forest town |
Weshen-juggal-slommo-mengreskey tem Weshen-juggal-slommo-mengreskey tem |
Fox-hunting fellows’ country, Leicestershire Fox-hunting guys' area, Leicestershire |
Wongareskey gav Wongareskey gave |
Coal town, Newcastle Coal town, Newcastle |
Wusto-mengresky tem Wusto-mengresky tem |
Wrestlers’ country, Devonshire Wrestlers’ country, Devon |
p. 117THOMAS ROSSAR-MESCRO, OR THOMAS HERNE
p. 118THOMAS ROSSAR-MESCRO
Prey Juniken bis diuto divvus, drey the besh yeck mille ochto shel shovardesh ta trin, mande jaw’d to dick Thomas Rossar-mescro, a puro Romano, of whom mande had shoon’d bute. He was jibbing drey a tan naveno Rye Groby’s Court, kek dur from the Coromengreskoe Tan ta Bokkar-engreskey Wesh. When mande dick’d leste he was beshing prey the poov by his wuddur, chiving misto the poggado tuleskey part of a skammin. His ker was posh ker, posh wardo, and stood drey a corner of the tan; kek dur from lesti were dui or trin wafor ker-wardoes. There was a wafudo canipen of baulor, though mande dick’d kekkeney. I penn’d “Sarshin?” in Romany jib, and we had some rokrapen kettaney. He was a boro mush, as mande could dick, though he was beshing. But though boro he was kek tulo, ta lescré wastes were tarney sar yek rawnie’s. Lollo leste mui sar yeck weneskoe paub, ta lescro bal rather lollo than parno. Prey his shero was a beti stadj, and he was kek wafudo riddo. On my putching leste kisi boro he was, ta kisi puro, he penn’d that he was sho piré sore but an inch boro, ta enyovardesh ta dui besh puro. He didn’t jin to rokkra bute in Romano, but jinn’d almost sore so mande p. 120rokkar’d te leste. Moro rokkrapen was mostly in gorgiko jib. Yeck covar yecklo drey lescro drom of rokkring mande pennsch’d kosko to rig in zi. In tan of penning Romany, sar wafor Romany chals, penn’d o Roumany, a lav which sig, sig rigg’d to my zi Roumain, the tatcho, puro nav of the Vallackiskie jib and foky. He seem’d a biti aladge of being of Romany rat. He penn’d that he was beano drey the Givengreskey Tem, that he was kek tatcho Romano, but yeckly posh ta posh: lescro dado was Romano, but lescri daya a gorgie of the Lilengreskoe Gav; he had never camm’d bute to jib Romaneskoenaes, and when tarno had been a givengreskoe raklo. When he was boro he jall’d adrey the Lilengrotemskey militia, and was desh ta stor besh a militia curomengro. He had jall’d bute about Engli-tem and the juvalo-mengreskey, Tem, drey the cheeros of the puri chingaripen, and had been adrey Monseer-tem, having volunteered to jal odoy to cour agen the parley-woo gueros. He had dick’d Bordeaux and the boro gav Paris. After the chingaripen, he had lell’d oprey skamminengring, and had jall’d about the tem, but had been knau for buter than trianda beshor jibbing in Lundra. He had been romado, but his romadi had been mullee bute, bute cheeros; she had dinn’d leste yeck chavo, so was knau a heftwardesh beshengro, dicking bute puroder than yo cocoro, ta kanau lying naflo of a tatti naflipen drey yeck of the wardes. He penn’d that at yeck cheeros he could kair dosta luvvu by skammin-engring, but kanau from his bori puripen could scarcely kair yeck tringurushee a divvus. “Ladjipen si,” I penn’d, “that a mush so puro as tute should p. 122have to booty.” “Kosko zi! kosko zi!” he penn’d; “Paracrow Dibble that mande is dosta ruslo to booty, and that mande has koskey camomescres; I shan’t be tugnis to jib to be a shel beshengro, though tatchipen si if mande was a rye mande would kair kek booty.” His chaveskoe chavo, a trianda ta pansch beshengro, well’d kanau ta rokkar’d mansar. He was a misto dicking ta rather misto riddo mush, sar chimouni jinneymengreskey drey lescro mui. He penn’d that his dadeskoe dad was a fino puro mush, savo had dick’d bute, and that dosta, dosta foky well’d odoy to shoon lescré rokkrapenes of the puro cheeros, of the Franciskie ta Amencanskie chingaripenes, and of what yo had dick’d drey wafu tems. That tatchipen to pen there was a cheeros when his drom was dur from kosko, for that he camm’d to cour, sollohaul ta kair himself motto, but that kanau he was a wafu mush, that he had muk’d sore curopen and wafudo rokkrapen, and, to corauni sore, was yeck tee-totaller, yo cocoro having kair’d leste sollohaul that he would pi kekomi neither tatti panie nor levinor: that he jall’d sore the curques either to congri or Tabernacle, and that tho’ he kek jinn’d to del oprey he camm’d to shoon the Miduveleskoe lil dell’d oprey to leste; that the panishkie ryor held leste drey boro camopen, and that the congriskoe rashi, and oprey sore Dr. P. of the Tabernacle had a boro opinionos of leste, ta penn’d that he would hal the Miduveleskoe habben sar moro Araunyo Jesus drey the kosko tem opral. Mande putch’d whether the Romany Chals well’d often to dick leste? He penn’d that they well’d knau and then to pen Koshto divvus and Sarshin? p. 124but dov’ odoy was sore; that neither his dadeskoe dad nor yo cocoro camm’d to dick lende, because they were wafodu foky, perdo of wafodupen and bango camopen, ta oprey sore bute envyous; that drey the wen they jall’d sore cattaney to the ryor, and rokkar’d wafodu of the puno mush, and pukker’d the ryor to let lester a coppur which the ryor had lent leste, to kair tatto his choveno puro truppo drey the cheeros of the trashlo shillipen; that tatchipen si their wafodupen kaired the puro mush kek dosh, for the ryor pukker’d lende to jal their drom and be aladge of their cocoré, but that it was kek misto to pensch that yeck was of the same rat as such foky. After some cheeros I dinn’d the puro mush a tawno cuttor of rupe, shook leste by ye wast, penn’d that it would be mistos amande to dick leste a shel-beshengro, and jaw’d away keri.
Prey Juniken was staying in a little town, called to talk to Thomas Rossar, a full Roman, whom I had only seen briefly. He was living in a small pub in Rye Groby’s Court, not far from the local Tavern and the Booking Office. When I looked at him, he was sitting right next to his window, moving through the crooked little part of a bar. His was a classy place, classy decor, and stood in the corner of the pub; not far from him were two or three wooden bar stools. There was a fireplace with some coal, though I couldn’t see it. I wrote “Sarshin?” in Romany script, and we had some small talk. He was a big guy, as I could see, though he was sitting. But although he was big, he wasn't tall, and his clothes were much too fancy for a typical person. Besides his looks, he was pretty worn out. When I observed him closer, he seemed to be about an inch taller than me and a little wider than two serious men. He didn’t speak to me much in Romany, but engaged almost as if I was p. 120talking to him. Most of the conversation was in English. One time, he told me how his path of talking was tied into his surroundings. In keeping with speaking Romany, like many Romany folks, he said he was from Roumany, a place which connects to my language Roumain, the proper, true name of the Wallachian language and its people. He seemed a bit proud of being from Romany roots. He said that he grew up near the Giving Town, that he wasn't a real Roman, but a bit posh: his dad was Roman, but his mother was a girl from the English town; he never came home to speak Romani, and when he did, it was within a giving circle. When he was young, he joined the English militia, and was set to serve as a militia recruit. He had talked much about England and its communities, especially the capital of the pure neighborhoods, and had been connected to a group, having volunteered to go away to fight against the invading troops. He had traveled to Bordeaux and the grand city of Paris. After the service, he had told tales about the time, but had been known for more than thirty conversations in London. He had a past, but his background was mixed; she had raised him with a certain toughness, so he was known to struggle more than others, and it didn't bother him to live in rough conditions, going from one bad patch to another among his kind. He said that at some point he could make enough money from small jobs, but simply from his rich background could hardly manage enough just to survive. “What a pity,” I wrote, “that a guy as good as you should have to struggle.” “No worries! no worries!” he wrote; “I think it’s enough that I am struggling and that I have enough help; I won’t be ashamed to say I’m poor, though I'd say if I were a richer man I'd hardly rely on my own means.” His childhood friend, around thirty and rather poor, wasn’t happy to talk to strangers. He was a guy struggling more than a quite ordinary man, as most deep conversations lived between them. He said that his father was a good man, who had lived perfectly well, and that many, many folks had been uplifted by his family in the social cases of pure neighborhoods, through the Franciscan and American communities, and of what he had dealt with during tough times. It seemed notable to say there was a community when his road was far from anyone, for he joined in to help himself get better, but still he was a regular man, that he had lived pretty roughly and struggled hard, and ultimately was one to avoid liquor, preferring to stay true to compose himself that he neither wanted a beer nor wine: he had heard of churches either to congregate or the Tabernacle, and that although he didn’t go out to speak much, he came to show the details of the Middle Ages that brought him; that the painful terms liked him dearly, and that the community members, and ultimately Dr. P. of the Tabernacle had a great opinion of him, saying that he would bring the Middle Ages with him to offer Jesus on so many levels. I asked whether the Romany folks often saw him? He said they knew and sometimes brought him gifts and Sarshin? p. 124but where was he then; that neither his father nor his mother came to offer support, because they were too posh, overly so with their burdens and material things, and ultimately were quite struggling; that through it all they would often check in on the members of the village, helping them out when necessary, and persuading those struggling to lend help which they could not afford, all of them in the neighborhood, struggling in the mud, and rooting for the joy of the season to feast; that although they never got back much, the circles were not majorly to gain respect for any background, but that it was enough to say it was all known to pass through so much hardship together. After a while, I offered the old man a small change of coins, shook him by the waist, said that it would benefit him in acting like a decent man, and then went away quietly.
p. 119THOMAS HERNE
On the twenty-second day of June, in the year one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, I went to see Thomas Herne, an old Gypsy, of whom I had heard a great deal. He was living at a place called Mr. Groby’s Court, not far from the Potteries and the Shepherd’s Bush. When I saw him, he was sitting on the ground by his door, mending the broken bottom of a chair. His house was half-house half-waggon, and stood in a corner of the court; not far from it were two or three other waggon-houses. There was a disagreeable smell of hogs, though I saw none. I said, “How you do?” in the Gypsy tongue, and we had discourse together. He was a tall man, as I could see, though he was sitting. But, though tall, he was not stout, and his hands were small as those of a lady. His face was as red as a winter apple, and his hair was rather red than grey. He had a small hat on his head, and he was not badly dressed. On my asking him how tall he was, and how old, he said that he was six foot high, all but an inch, and that he was ninety-two years old. He could not talk much Gypsy, but understood almost all that I said to him. Our p. 121discourse was chiefly in English. One thing only in his manner of speaking I thought worthy of remembrance. Instead of saying Romany, like other Gypsies, he said Roumany, a word which instantly brought to my mind Roumain, the genuine, ancient name of the Wallachian tongue and people. He seemed to be rather ashamed of being of Gypsy blood. He told me that he was born in Buckinghamshire, that he was no true Gypsy, but only half-and-half: his father was a Gypsy, but his mother was a Gentile of Oxford; he had never had any particular liking for the Gypsy manner of living, and when little had been a farmer’s boy. When he grew up he enlisted into the Oxford militia, and was fourteen years a militia soldier. He had gone much about England and Scotland in the time of the old war, and had been in France, having volunteered to go thither to fight against the French. He had seen Bordeaux and the great city of Paris. After war he had taken up chair-making, and had travelled about the country, but had been now for more than thirty years living in London. He had been married, but his wife had long been dead. She had borne him a son, who was now a man seventy years of age, looking much older than himself, and at present lying sick of a burning fever in one of the caravans. He said that at one time he could make a good deal of money by chair-making, but now from his great age could scarcely earn a shilling a day. “What a shame,” said I, “that a man so old as you should have to p. 123work at all!” “Courage! courage!” he cried; “I thank God that I am strong enough to work, and that I have good friends; I shan’t be sorry to live to be a hundred years old, though true it is that if I were a gentleman I would do no work.” His grandson, a man of about five-and-thirty, came now and conversed with me. He was a good-looking and rather well-dressed man, with something of a knowing card in his countenance. He said that his grandfather was a fine old man, who had seen a great deal, and that a great many people came to hear his stories of the old time, of the French and American wars, and of what he had seen in other countries. That, truth to say, there was a time when his way was far from commendable, for that he loved to fight, swear, and make himself drunk; but that now he was another man, that he had abandoned all fighting and evil speaking, and, to crown all, was a tee-totaller, he himself having made him swear that he would no more drink either gin or ale: that he went every Sunday either to church or Tabernacle, and that, though he did not know how to read, he loved to hear the holy book read to him; that the gentlemen of the parish entertained a great regard for him, and that the church clergyman and, above all, Dr. P. of the Tabernacle had a high opinion of him, and said that he would partake of the holy banquet with our Lord Jesus in the blessed country above. On my inquiring whether the Gypsies came often to see him, he said that they came now and then to say “Good day” and “How do you do?” but that was all; p. 125that neither his grandfather nor himself cared to see them, because they were evil people, full of wickedness and left-handed love, and, above all, very envyous; that in the winter they all went in a body to the gentlemen and spoke ill of the old man, and begged the gentlemen to take from him a blanket which the gentlemen had lent him to warm his poor old body with in the time of the terrible cold; that it is true their wickedness did the old man no harm, for the gentlemen told them to go away and be ashamed of themselves, but that it was not pleasant to think that one was of the same blood as such people. After some time I gave the old man a small piece of silver, shook him by the hand, said that I should be glad to see him live to be a hundred, and went away home.
On the twenty-second day of June, in the year eighteen sixty-three, I went to see Thomas Herne, an old Gypsy, who I had heard a lot about. He was living at a place called Mr. Groby’s Court, not far from the Potteries and Shepherd’s Bush. When I found him, he was sitting on the ground by his door, fixing the broken bottom of a chair. His home was part house, part wagon, and it stood in a corner of the court; nearby were two or three other wagon-houses. There was an unpleasant smell of pigs, though I didn’t see any. I said, “How are you?” in the Gypsy language, and we talked together. He was a tall man, even while sitting down. But despite being tall, he wasn’t heavy, and his hands were small like a lady’s. His face was as red as a winter apple, and his hair was more red than grey. He wore a small hat and was dressed reasonably well. When I asked him how tall he was and how old he was, he said he was almost six feet tall and that he was ninety-two years old. He couldn’t speak much Gypsy, but he understood almost everything I said. Our p. 121conversation was mostly in English. One thing I found interesting about his way of speaking was that instead of saying Romany like other Gypsies, he said Roumany, a word that immediately reminded me of Roumain, the authentic, ancient name of the Wallachian language and people. He seemed a bit ashamed of being of Gypsy heritage. He told me he was born in Buckinghamshire, that he wasn’t a true Gypsy but only half: his father was a Gypsy, but his mother was a Gentile from Oxford; he never really liked the Gypsy way of life and when he was young, he was a farmer’s boy. When he grew up, he joined the Oxford militia and served as a militia soldier for fourteen years. He traveled a lot across England and Scotland during the old war and went to France, having volunteered to fight against the French. He had seen Bordeaux and the grand city of Paris. After the war, he took up chair-making and traveled around the country, but had been living in London for over thirty years. He had been married, but his wife had passed away long ago. She had given him a son who was now seventy years old, looking much older than himself, and was currently lying sick with a high fever in one of the caravans. He mentioned that at one time he could make a good living chair-making, but now, due to his age, he could hardly earn a shilling a day. “What a shame,” I said, “that a man as old as you should have to p. 123work at all!” “Courage! Courage!” he exclaimed; “I thank God that I am strong enough to work, and that I have good friends; I wouldn’t mind living to be a hundred years old, although it’s true that if I were a gentleman, I wouldn’t do any work.” His grandson, a man of around thirty-five, came over and talked with me. He was a good-looking and fairly well-dressed man, with something of a knowing look on his face. He said his grandfather was a fine old man who had seen a lot, and many people came to hear his stories about the old days, the French and American wars, and his travels in other countries. He admitted that there was a time when his grandfather’s behavior wasn’t commendable, as he enjoyed fighting, swearing, and drinking; but that now he was a different man, having given up all fighting and bad language, and to top it off, he was a tee-totaller, as he himself had urged his grandfather to stop drinking gin or ale; that he went to church or Tabernacle every Sunday and that, although he didn’t know how to read, he loved having the holy book read to him; the gentlemen in the parish held him in high regard, particularly the church clergyman and, especially, Dr. P. of the Tabernacle, who thought highly of him and said he would dine with our Lord Jesus in the blessed land above. When I asked if the Gypsies visited him often, he said they came now and then just to say “Good day” and “How do you do?” but that was it; p. 125that neither his grandfather nor he cared to see them because they were bad people, full of wickedness and left-handed love, and, above all, very envious; that in the winter, they would all gather to speak ill of the old man to the gentlemen and begged them to take away a blanket that had been lent to him to keep his poor old body warm during the terrible cold; that it was true their wickedness didn’t harm the old man, as the gentlemen told them to go away and be ashamed, but that it wasn’t pleasant to think one was related to such people. After a while, I gave the old man a small piece of silver, shook his hand, said I hoped to see him live to be a hundred, and went home.
p. 127KOKKODUS ARTARUS
p. 129Drey the puro cheeros there jibb’d a puri Romani juva, Sinfaya laki nav. Tatchi Romani juva i; caum’d to rokkra Romany, nav’d every mush kokkodus, ta every mushi deya. Yeck chavo was láki; lescro nav Artáros; dinnelo or diviou was O; romadi was lesgué; but the rommadi merr’d, mukking leste yeck chávo. Artáros caum’d to jal oprey the drom, and sikker his nangipen to rawnies and kair muior. At last the ryor chiv’d leste drey the diviou ker. The chávo jibb’d with his puri deya till he was a desch ta pantsch besh engro. Yeck divvus a Romani juva jalling along the drom dick’d the puri juva beshing tuley a bor roving: What’s the matter, Sinfaya, pukker’d i?
p. 129Drey the pure cheerleaders there jived with a pure Romani girl, Sinfaya, who's beautiful. That Romani girl was; she danced to the Romani music, surrounded by every boy as her audience, to every girl as well. One boy was lucky; his name was Artáros; his appearance was O; he was charming; but the charm was lost, mocking the one boy. Artáros danced and twirled down the road, showing his skills to everyone. At last, the group pulled him toward the music. The boy jived with his pure charm until he was a mess with his pants half down. One day, a Romani girl walking down the road noticed the pure girl shining like a bright star: "What's wrong, Sinfaya?" she asked.
My chavo’s chavo is lell’d oprey,
deya.
What’s he lell’d oprey for?
For a meila and posh, deya.
Why don’t you jal to dick leste?
I have nash’d my maila, deya.
O má be tugni about your maila; jal and dick leste.
My kid's kid is called oprey,
there.
What’s he called oprey for?
For a meal and a fancy time, there.
Why don’t you go and check it out?
I have messed up my meal, there.
Oh, maybe think about your meal; go and check it out.
I don’t jin kah se, deya! diviou kokkodus Artáros jins, kek mande. Ah diviou, diviou, jal amande callico.
I don’t understand this, seriously! I'm so confused by this whole thing. Ah man, seriously, what is going on?
p. 131MANG, PRALA
BEG ON, BRO
p. 132MANG, PRALA
Romano chavo was manging sar bori gudli yeck rye te del les pasherro. Lescri deya so was beshing kek dur from odoy penn’d in gorgikey rokrapen: Meklis juggal, ta av acoi! ma kair the rye kinyo with your gudli! and then penn’d sig in Romany jib: Mang, Prala, mang! Ta o chavo kair’d ajaw till the rye chiv’d les yeck shohaury.
Romano was managing the food really well for the people around him. He wrote that he was pushing away the tough stuff from the old bread wrapped in thick paper: “Make it happen, just do it! Don't mess with your food!” and then he wrote down in Romani too: “Give me some, brother, give me some!” And the guy kept going until he got enough for the people around him.
BEG ON, BROTHER
A Gypsy brat was once pestering a gentleman to give him a halfpenny. The mother, who was sitting nigh, cried in English: Leave off, you dog, and come here! don’t trouble the gentleman with your noise; and then added in Romany: Beg on, brother! and so the brat did, till the gentleman flung him a sixpence.
A Romani kid was once bugging a guy to give him a halfpenny. The mother, who was sitting nearby, shouted in English: Stop it, you little rascal, and come here! Don’t bother the gentleman with your noise; and then added in Romany: Keep begging, brother! So the kid did, until the gentleman tossed him a sixpence.
p. 135ENGLISH GYPSY SONGS
p. 136WELLING KATTANEY: THE GYPSY MEETING
Coin si deya, coin
se dado?
Pukker mande drey Romanes,
Ta mande pukkeravava tute.
Coin si deya, coin se dado?
Pukker mande drey Romanes,
Ta mande pukkeravava tute.
Rossar-mescri minri deya!
Vardo-mescro minro dado!
Coin se dado, coin si deya?
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes;
Knau pukker tute mande.
Rossar-mescri minri deya!
Vardo-mescro minro dado!
Coin se dado, coin si deya?
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes;
Knau pukker tute mande.
Petuiengro minro dado!
Purana minri deya!
Tatchey Romany si men—
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes,
Ta tute’s pukker’d mande.
Petuiengro minro dado!
Purana minri deya!
Tatchey Romany si men—
Mande’s pukker’d tute drey Romanes,
Ta tute’s pukker’d mande.
p. 137THE GYPSY MEETING
Who’s your
mother, who’s your father?
Do thou answer me in Romany,
And I will answer thee.
Who's your
mom, who's your dad?
Answer me in Romany,
And I'll respond to you.
A Hearne I have for mother!
A Cooper for my father!
Who’s your father, who’s your mother?
I have answer’d thee in Romany,
Now do thou answer me.
A Hearne is my mom!
A Cooper is my dad!
Who’s your dad, who’s your mom?
I’ve answered you in Romany,
Now you answer me.
A Smith I have for father!
A Lee I have for mother!
True Romans both are we—
For I’ve answer’d thee in Romany,
And thou hast answer’d me.
A Smith is my dad!
A Lee is my mom!
We’re both true Romans—
Because I’ve replied to you in Romany,
And you’ve replied to me.
p. 138LELLING CAPPI: MAKING A FORTUNE
“Av, my little
Romany chel!
Av along with mansar!
Av, my little Romany chel!
Koshto si for mangue.”
“Av, my little
Romany boy!
Av along with the gang!
Av, my little Romany boy!
Koshto si for me.”
“I shall lel a curapen,
If I jal aley;
I shall lel a curapen
From my dear bebee.”
“I shall get a cure,
If I find a way;
I shall get a cure
From my dear baby.”
“I will jal on my chongor,
Then I’ll pootch your bebee.
‘O my dear bebee, dey me your chi,
For koshto si for mangue.’
“I will jal on my chongor,
Then I’ll pootch your bebee.
‘O my dear bebee, give me your chi,
For koshto si for mangue.’
“‘Since you pootch me for my
chi,
I will dey you lati.’”
Av, my little Romany chel!
We will jal to the wafu tem:
“‘Since you tease me about my
chi,
I will stay here with you.’”
Oh, my little Romany kid!
We will go to the warm place:
“I will chore a beti gry,
And so we shall lel cappi.”
“Kekko, meero mushipen,
For so you would be stardo;
“I will take a beti gry,
And so we shall drink cappi.”
“Kekko, my friend,
For that is how you would shine;
“But I will jal a dukkering,
And so we shall lel cappi.”
“Koshto, my little Romany chel!
Koshto si for mangue.”
“But I will tell a story,
And then we shall eat dinner.”
“Good, my little Romani child!
Good is for me.”
p. 139MAKING A FORTUNE
“Come along,
my little gypsy girl,
Come along, my little dear;
Come along, my little gypsy girl—
We’ll wander far and near.”
Come along,
my little gypsy girl,
Come along, my little dear;
Come along, my little gypsy girl—
We’ll explore everywhere.
“I should get a leathering
Should I with thee go;
I should get a leathering
From my dear aunt, I trow.”
“I should get a beating
If I go with you;
I should get a beating
From my dear aunt, I’m sure.”
“I’ll go down on my two knees,
And I will beg your aunt.
‘O auntie dear, give me your child;
She’s just the girl I want!’
“I’ll kneel down on both knees,
And I will plead with your aunt.
‘Oh auntie dear, please give me your child;
She’s just the girl I want!’
“‘Since you ask me for my child,
I will not say thee no!’
Come along, my little gypsy girl!
To another land we’ll go:
“‘Since you’re asking for my child,
I won’t say no to you!’
Come on, my little gypsy girl!
We’ll go to another land:
“I will steal a little horse,
And our fortunes make thereby.”
“Not so, my little gypsy boy,
For then you’d swing on high;
“I'll take a small horse,
And we'll make our fortune that way.”
“Not so, my little gypsy boy,
Because then you’d be swinging high;
“But I’ll a fortune-telling go,
And our fortunes make thereby.”
“Well said, my little gypsy girl,
You counsel famously.”
“But I’ll go for a fortune-telling,
And let's see what our futures hold.”
“Well said, my little gypsy girl,
You give great advice.”
p. 140LELLING CAPPI
No. 2
“Av, my little
Rumni chel,
Av along with mansar;
We will jal a gry-choring
Pawdle across the chumba.
“Av, my little
Rumni chel,
Av with mansar;
We will do a great job
Paddle across the river.
“I’ll jaw tuley on my chongor
To your deya and your bebee;
And I’ll pootch lende that they del
Tute to me for romadi.”
“I’ll talk freely on my own terms
To your day and your child;
And I’ll make sure that they say
Nice things about me in return.”
“I’ll jaw with thee, my Rumni
chal,
If my dye and bebee muk me;
But choring gristurs traishes me,
For it brings one to the rukie.
"I'll talk with you, my Rumni chal,
If my dye and bebee make me;
But chores tire me,
Because they bring one to the brink."
“’Twere ferreder that you should
ker,
Petuls and I should dukker,
For then adrey our tanney tan,
We kek atraish may sova.”
“It's better that you should care,
Petuls and I should dance,
For then around our pretty place,
We can show the way.”
“Kusko, my little Rumni chel,
Your rokrapen is kusko;
We’ll dukker and we’ll petuls ker
Pawdle across the chumba.
“Kusko, my little Rumni chel,
Your rokrapen is kusko;
We’ll dukker and we’ll petuls ker
Pawdle across the chumba.
“O kusko si to chore a gry
Adrey the kaulo rarde;
But ’tis not kosko to be nash’d
Oprey the nashing rukie.”
“O kusko si to chore a gry
Adrey the kaulo rarde;
But it’s not cool to be bothered
Oprey the bothering rukie.”
p. 141MAKING A FORTUNE
No. 2
“Come along,
my little gypsy girl,
Come along with me, I pray!
A-stealing horses we will go,
O’er the hills so far away.
“Come on,
my little gypsy girl,
Come with me, please!
We'll go stealing horses,
Over the hills so far away.
“Before your mother and your aunt
I’ll down upon my knee,
And beg they’ll give me their little girl
To be my Romadie.”
“Before your mom and your aunt
I’ll get down on my knee,
And ask them to give me their little girl
To be my Romadie.”
“I’ll go with you, my gypsy boy,
If my mother and aunt agree;
But a perilous thing is horse-stealinge,
For it brings one to the tree.
“I’ll go with you, my gypsy boy,
If my mom and aunt say it’s cool;
But stealing horses is dangerous,
Because it leads to hanging.
“’Twere better you should tinkering
ply,
And I should fortunes tell;
For then within our little tent
In safety we might dwell.”
"It would be better for you to tinker away,
And I to tell fortunes;
For then, inside our little tent,
We could stay safe."
“Well said, my little gypsy girl,
I like well what you say;
We’ll tinkering ply, and fortunes tell
O’er the hills so far away.
“Well said, my little gypsy girl,
I really like what you say;
We'll tinker and play, and tell fortunes
Over the hills so far away.
“’Tis a pleasant thing in a dusky
night
A horse-stealing to go;
But to swing in the wind on the gallows-tree,
Is no pleasant thing, I trow.”
“It’s a nice thing on a dark night
To steal a horse;
But to swing in the wind on the gallows,
Is not a nice thing, I think.”
p. 142THE DUI CHALOR
Dui Romany Chals
were bitcheney,
Bitcheney pawdle the bori pawnee.
Plato for kawring,
Lasho for choring
The putsi of a bori rawnee.
DUI Romany Chals
were really cool,
Really cool hanging out with the awesome people.
Plato for caring,
Lasho for helping
The vibe of a great time.
And when they well’d to the wafu tem,
The tem that’s pawdle the bori pawnee,
Plato was nasho
Sig, but Lasho
Was lell’d for rom by a bori rawnee.
And when they got to the wafu tem,
The tem that’s paddled the bori pawnee,
Plato was national
Sig, but Lasho
Was called for rom by a bori rawnee.
You cam to jin who that rawnie was,
’Twas the rawnie from whom he chor’d the putsee:
The Chal had a black
Chohauniskie yack,
And she slomm’d him pawdle the bori pawnee.
You came to know who that girl was,
She was the girl he stole the money from:
The guy had a black
Funny-looking goat,
And she watched him paddle the dirty water.
p. 143THE TWO GYPSIES
Two Gypsy lads were
transported,
Were sent across the great water.
Plato was sent for rioting,
And Louis for stealing the purse
Of a great lady.
Two gypsy boys were taken away,
Were sent across the big ocean.
Plato was sent for causing a ruckus,
And Louis for stealing a wealthy lady's purse.
And when they came to the other country,
The country that lies across the great water,
Plato was speedily hung,
But Louis was taken as a husband
By a great lady.
And when they arrived in the other land,
The land that sits across the vast ocean,
Plato was quickly hanged,
But Louis was taken as a husband
By a noblewoman.
You wish to know who was the lady,
’Twas the lady from whom he stole the purse:
The Gypsy had a black and witching eye,
And on account of that she followed him
Across the great water.
You want to know who the woman was,
It was the woman whose purse he took:
The Gypsy had a dark and captivating eye,
And because of that she followed him
Across the wide ocean.
p. 144MIRO ROMANY CHl
As I was a jawing to
the gav yeck divvus
I met on the drom miro Romany chi;
I pootch’d las whether she come sar mande,
And she penn’d tu sar wafo rommadis;
O mande there is kek wafo romady,
So penn’d I to miro Romany chi,
And I’ll kair tute miro tatcho romadi
If you but pen tu come sar mande.
As I was talking to the old lady
I met on the road a Romani girl;
I asked her whether she would come with me,
And she replied to me that there were no other girls;
Oh, there is no other girl like me,
So I said to the Romani girl,
And I’ll carry you my dear girl
If you just say you’ll come with me.
p. 145MY ROMAN LASS
As I to the town was
going one day
My Roman lass I met by the way;
Said I: Young maid, will you share my lot?
Said she: Another wife you’ve got.
Ah no! to my Roman lass I cried:
No wife have I in the world so wide,
And you my wedded wife shall be
If you will consent to come with me.
As I was walking to town one day
I ran into my Roman girl on the way;
I said: Hey there, will you join me?
She replied: You already have a wife, you see.
Oh no! to my Roman girl I exclaimed:
I have no wife in this whole wide world,
And you will be my wife
If you agree to come with me.
p. 146AVA, CHI
Hokka tute mande
Mande pukkra bebee
Mande shauvo tute—
Ava, Chi!
Hokkaido you said
You said those words to me
You said with love—
Come on, Chi!
YES, MY GIRL
If to me you prove
untrue,
Quickly I’ll your auntie tell
I’ve been over-thick with you—
Yes, my girl, I will.
If you prove untrue to me,
I’ll quickly tell your auntie
That I’ve been too close with you—
Yes, I will, my girl.
THE TEMESKOE RYE
Penn’d the
temeskoe rye to the Romany chi,
As the choon was dicking prey lende dui:
Rinkeny tawni, Romany rawni,
Mook man choom teero gudlo mui.
Wrote the
temeskoe rye to the Romany kid,
As the song was playing in the light:
Sparkling stars, Romany beauty,
Make me hold your lovely hand.
THE YOUTHFUL EARL
Said the youthful
earl to the Gypsy girl,
As the moon was casting its silver shine:
Brown little lady, Egyptian lady,
Let me kiss those sweet lips of thine.
Said the young earl to the Gypsy girl,
As the moon was shining bright:
Cute little lady, Egyptian lady,
Let me kiss those sweet lips of yours.
p. 148CAMO-GILLIE
Pawnie birks
My men-engni shall be;
Yackors my dudes
Like ruppeney shine:
Atch meery chi!
Mā jal away:
Perhaps I may not dick tute
Kek komi.
Pawnee birks
My men-engni shall be;
Yackors my dudes
Like ruppeney shine:
Atch meery chi!
Mā jal away:
Perhaps I may not dick tute
Kek komi.
p. 149LOVE-SONG
I’d choose as
pillows for my head
Those snow-white breasts of thine;
I’d use as lamps to light my bed
Those eyes of silver shine:
O lovely maid, disdain me not,
Nor leave me in my pain:
Perhaps ’twill never be my lot
To see thy face again.
I would choose as
pillows for my head
Those snow-white breasts of yours;
I’d use as lamps to light my bed
Those eyes of silver shine:
O lovely girl, don’t look down on me,
Nor leave me in my pain:
Maybe I’ll never have the chance
To see your face again.
p. 150TUGNIS AMANDE
I’m jalling
across the pāni—
A choring mas and morro,
Along with a bori lubbeny,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I'm wandering
across the water—
A hardworking man and a fool,
Along with a big troublemaker,
And she has been the downfall of me.
I sov’d yeck rarde drey a gran,
A choring mas and morro,
Along with a bori lubbeny,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I saved your rare day, a grand,
A chore and a struggle,
Along with a boring burden,
And she has been my downfall.
She pootch’d me on the collico,
A choring mas and morro,
To jaw with lasa to the show,
For she would be the ruin of me.
She poked me on the stomach,
A tiring task and trouble,
To talk with her at the show,
Because she would be my downfall.
And when I jaw’d odoy with lasa,
A choring mas and morro,
Sig she chor’d a rawnie’s kissi,
And so she was the ruin of me.
And when I chatted away with her,
A mix of fun and problems,
She shared a sweet kiss with me,
And that’s how she messed me up.
They lell’d up lata, they lell’d up
mande,
A choring mas and morro,
And bitch’d us dui pawdle pãni,
So she has been the ruin of me.
They yelled up late, they yelled up
mad,
A boring mess and more,
And bugged us to paddle hard,
So she has been the ruin of me.
I’m jalling across the pāni,
A choring mas and morro,
Along with a bori lubbeny,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I’m jamming across the water,
A hard-working man and more,
Along with a big troublemaker,
And she has been the downfall of me.
p. 151WOE IS ME
I’m sailing
across the water,
A-stealing bread and meat so free,
Along with a precious harlot,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I'm sailing
across the water,
Stealing bread and meat so freely,
Along with a precious companion,
And she has been my downfall.
I slept one night within a barn,
A-stealing bread and meat so free,
Along with a precious harlot,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I spent a night in a barn,
Stealing bread and meat without worry,
With a precious woman of ill-repute,
And she has led me to my downfall.
Next morning she would have me go,
A-stealing bread and meat so free,
To see with her the wild-beast show,
For she would be the ruin of me.
Next morning she would have me go,
Stealing bread and meat so easily,
To watch the wild animal show with her,
Because she would be my downfall.
I went with her to see the show,
A-stealing bread and meat so free,
To steal a purse she was not slow,
And so she was the ruin of me.
I went with her to see the show,
Taking bread and meat without pay,
She was quick to lift a wallet,
And that's how she led me to ruin.
They took us up, and with her I,
A-stealing bread and meat so free:
Am sailing now to Botany,
So she has been the ruin of me.
They took us up, and with her I,
Stealing bread and meat so freely:
I’m sailing now to Botany,
So she’s been my downfall.
I’m sailing across the water,
A-stealing bread and meat so free,
Along with a precious harlot,
And she has been the ruin of me.
I’m sailing across the water,
Sneaking bread and meat so freely,
Along with a cherished woman,
And she has brought me to ruin.
p. 152THE RYE AND RAWNIE
The rye he mores
adrey the wesh
The kaun-engro and chiriclo;
You sovs with leste drey the wesh,
And rigs for leste the gono.
The rye he loves
across the water
The grain-broker and chatter;
You save with little across the water,
And dig for little the trouble.
Oprey the rukh adrey the wesh
Are chiriclo and chiricli;
Tuley the rukh adrey the wesh
Are pireno and pireni.
Oprey the rukh adrey the wesh
Are chiriclo and chiricli;
Tuley the rukh adrey the wesh
Are pireno and pireni.
p. 153THE SQUIRE AND LADY
The squire he roams
the good greenwood,
And shoots the pheasant and the hare;
Thou sleep’st with him in good green wood,
And dost for him the game-sack bear.
The squire roams
the beautiful forest,
And hunts the pheasant and the hare;
You sleep with him in the lush woods,
And carry the game sack for him.
I see, I see upon the tree
The little male and female dove;
Below the tree I see, I see
The lover and his lady love.
I see, I see on the tree
The little male and female dove;
Below the tree I see, I see
The lover and his lady love.
p. 154ROMANY SUTTUR GILLIE
Jaw to sutturs, my
tiny chal;
Your die to dukker has jall’d abri;
At rarde she will wel palal
And tute of her tud shall pie.
Jaw to sutturs, my
tiny chal;
Your die to dukker has jall’d abri;
At rarde she will wel palal
And tute of her tud shall pie.
Jaw to lutherum, tiny baw!
I’m teerie deya’s purie mam;
As tute cams her tud canaw
Thy deya meerie tud did cam.
Jaw to lutherum, tiny baw!
I’m teerie deya’s pure mom;
As tute cams her tud canaw
Thy deya merry tud did cam.
p. 155GYPSY LULLABY
Sleep thee, little
tawny boy!
Thy mother’s gone abroad to spae,
Her kindly milk thou shalt enjoy
When home she comes at close of day.
Rest now, little brown boy!
Your mother’s gone out to see,
You’ll have her warm milk to enjoy
When she comes home at the end of the day.
Sleep thee, little tawny guest!
Thy mother is my daughter fine;
As thou dost love her kindly breast,
She once did love this breast of mine.
Sleep well, little brown guest!
Your mother is my lovely daughter;
As you love her gentle embrace,
She once loved this embrace of mine.
p. 156SHARRAFI KRALYISSA
Finor coachey innar
Lundra,
Bonor coachey innar Lundra,
Finor coachey, bonor coachey
Mande dick’d innar Lundra.
Finor coaches in Lundra,
Bonor coaches in Lundra,
Finor coaches, Bonor coaches
Mande's dick'd in Lundra.
Bonor, finor coachey
Mande dick’d innar Lundra
The divvus the Kralyissa jall’d
To congri innar Lundra.
Bonor, finor coachey
Mande dick’d innar Lundra
The day the Queen called
To gather in London.
OUR BLESSED QUEEN
Coaches fine in
London,
Coaches good in London,
Coaches fine and coaches good
I did see in London.
Coaches are great in
London,
Coaches are nice in London,
Coaches are fine and coaches are nice
I did see in London.
Coaches good and coaches fine
I did see in London,
The blessed day our blessed Queen
Rode to church in London.
Coaches good and coaches fine
I saw in London,
The blessed day our blessed Queen
Rode to church in London.
PLASTRA LESTI
Gare yourselves,
pralor!
Mã pee kek-komi!
The guero’s welling—
Plastra lesti!
Station yourselves,
pralor!
Mã pee kek-komi!
The guero’s welling—
Plastra lesti!
RUN FOR IT!
Up, up, brothers!
Cease your revels!
The Gentile’s coming—
Run like devils!
Up, up, brothers!
Stop your partying!
The outsider’s coming—
Run like crazy!
p. 159FOREIGN GYPSY SONGS
Oy die-la, oy mama-la oy!
Cherie podey mangue penouri.Oh yeah, oh mom oh!
Cherie loves dancing in the rain.Russian Gypsy Song.
Russian Gypsy Song.
p. 161THE
ROMANY SONGSTRESS
FROM THE RUSSIAN ROMA
Her temples they are aching,
As if wine she had been taking;
Her tears are ever springing,
Abandoned is her singing!
She can neither eat nor nest
With love she’s so distress’d;
At length she’s heard to say:
“Oh here I cannot stay,
Go saddle me my steed,
To my lord I must proceed;
In his palace plenteously
Both eat and drink shall I;
The servants far and wide,
Bidding guests shall run and ride.
And when within the hall the multitude I see,
I’ll raise my voice anew, and sing in Romany.”
Her head is pounding,
Like she’s been drinking wine;
Tears keep flowing,
She’s stopped singing!
She can’t eat or rest
Because love is making her so miserable;
Finally, she’s heard to say:
“Oh, I can’t stay here,
Get my horse ready,
I need to go to my lord;
In his palace, I’ll have plenty
To eat and drink;
The servants will run and ride
To invite guests everywhere.
And when I see the crowd in the hall,
I’ll lift my voice again and sing in Romany.”
p. 162L’ERAJAI
Un erajai
Sinaba chibando un sermon;
Y lle falta un balicho
Al chindomar de aquel gao,
Y lo chanelaba que los Cales
Lo abian nicabao;
Y penela l’erajai, “Chaboró!
Guillate a tu quer
Y nicabela la peri
Que terela el balicho,
Y chibela andro
Una lima de tun chaborí,
Chabori,
Una lima de tun chabori.”
Un erajai
Sinaba giving a sermon;
And he was missing a little bit
To the chindomar of that house,
And it was being mentioned that the Cales
Had finally finished it;
And he thought, “Chaboró!
Get up to your place
And finally finish the task
That the little bit,
And bring along
A file of your chaborí,
Chabori,
A file of your chabori.”
p. 163THE
FRIAR
FROM THE SPANISH ROMANI
A Friar
Was preaching once with zeal and with fire;
And a butcher of the town
Had lost a flitch of bacon;
And well the friar knew
That the Gypsies it had taken;
So suddenly he shouted: “Gypsy, ho!
Hie home, and from the pot!
Take the flitch of bacon out,
The flitch good and fat,
And in its place throw
A clout, a dingy clout of thy brat,
Of thy brat,
A clout, a dingy clout of thy brat.”
A Friar
Was preaching with passion and energy;
And a butcher in town
Had lost a piece of bacon;
And the friar knew very well
That the Gypsies had taken it;
So suddenly he shouted: “Gypsy, hey!
Get home, and from the pot!
Take the piece of bacon out,
The piece that's nice and fatty,
And in its place throw
A rag, a dirty rag from your kid,
From your kid,
A rag, a dirty rag from your kid.”
p. 164MALBRUN
FROM THE SPANISH GYPSY VERSION
Chaló Malbrun
chingarár,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Chaló Malbrun chingarár;
No sé bus truterá!
No sé bus truterá!
Chill Malbrun
chingarár,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Chaló Malbrun chingarár;
I don’t know bus truterá!
I don’t know bus truterá!
La romi que le caméla,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
La romi que le camela
Muy curepeñada está,
Muy curepeñada está.
La romi que le caméla,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
La romi que le camela
Muy curepeñada está,
Muy curepeñada está.
S’ardéla á la
felichá,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
S’ardéla á la felichá
Y baribu dur dicá,
Y baribu dur dicá.
S’ardéla á la
felichá,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
S’ardéla á la felichá
Y baribu dur dicá,
Y baribu dur dicá.
Dicá abillar su burno,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Dicá abillar su burno,
En ropa callardá,
En ropa callardá.
Dicá abillar su burno,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Dicá abillar su burno,
In clothes covered up,
In clothes covered up.
“Las nuevas que io térelo,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Las nuevas que io terélo
Te haran orobar,
Te haran orobar.
“Las nuevas que io térelo,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Las nuevas que io terélo
Te harán orobar,
Te harán orobar.
“Meró Malbrun mi eráy,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Meró Malbrun mi eráy
Meró en la chingá,
Meró en la chingá.
“Meró Malbrun my era,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Meró Malbrun my era
Meró in the mess,
Meró in the mess.
“Sinaba á su entierro,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Sinaba á su entierro
La plastani sará,
La plastani sará.
“Sinaba á su entierro,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Sinaba á su entierro
La plastani sará,
La plastani sará.
“Seis guapos jundunáres,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Seis guapos jundunáres
Le lleváron cabañar,
Le lleváron cabañar.
“Six handsome jundunáres,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Six handsome jundunáres
Took him to the cabin,
Took him to the cabin.
“Delante de la jestári,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Delante de la jestári
Chaló el sacristá,
Chaló el sacristá.
“Delante de la jestári,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Delante de la jestári
Chaló el sacristá,
Chaló el sacristá.
“Al majaro ortaláme,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Al majaro ortaláme
Le lleváron cabañar,
Le lleváron cabañar.
“Al majaro ortaláme,
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Al majaro ortaláme
They took him to the cabin,
They took him to the cabin.
“Y oté le
cabañáron
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Y oté le cabañáron
No dur de la burdá,
No dur de la burdá.
“Y oté le
cabañáron
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Y oté le cabañáron
No dur de la burdá,
No dur de la burdá.
“Y opré de la jestári
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Guillabéla un chilindróte;
Sobá en paz, sobá!
Sobá en paz, sobá!”
“Y opré de la jestári
Birandón, birandón, birandéra!
Guillabéla un chilindróte;
Sobá en paz, sobá!
Sobá en paz, sobá!”
p. 167MALBROUK
Malbrouk is gone to
the wars,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Malbrouk is gone to the wars;
He’ll never return no more!
He’ll never return no more!
Malbrouk has gone off to fight,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Malbrouk has gone off to fight;
He won’t be coming back again!
He won’t be coming back again!
His lady-love and darling,
Birrandon, birrandón, birrandéra
His lady-love and darling
His absence doth deplore,
His absence doth deplore.
His sweetheart and beloved,
Birrandon, birrandón, birrandéra
His sweetheart and beloved
His absence is deeply felt,
His absence is deeply felt.
To the turret’s top she mounted,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
To the turret’s top she mounted
And look’d till her eyes were sore,
And look’d till her eyes were sore.
To the top of the turret she climbed,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
To the top of the turret she climbed
And stared until her eyes ached,
And stared until her eyes ached.
She saw his squire a-coming,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
She saw his squire a-coming;
And a mourning suit he wore,
And a mourning suit he wore.
She saw his squire approaching,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
She saw his squire approaching;
And he was wearing a mourning suit,
And he was wearing a mourning suit.
“The news which I bring thee, lady,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
The news which I bring thee, lady,
Will cause thy tears to shower,
Will cause thy tears to shower.
“The news I bring you, lady,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
The news I bring you, lady,
Will make you cry,
Will make you cry.”
“Malbrouk my master’s fallen,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Malbrouk my master’s fallen,
He fell on the fields of gore,
He fell on the fields of gore.
“Malbrouk, my master has fallen,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Malbrouk, my master has fallen,
He fell on the bloody fields,
He fell on the bloody fields.
“His funeral attended,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
His funeral attended
The whole reg’mental corps,
The whole reg’mental corps.
“His funeral attended,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
His funeral attended
The whole regiment corps,
The whole regiment corps.
“Six neat and proper soldiers,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Six neat and proper soldiers
To the grave my master bore,
To the grave my master bore.
“Six tidy and proper soldiers,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
Six tidy and proper soldiers
To the grave my master carried,
To the grave my master carried.
“The parson follow’d the coffin,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
The parson follow’d the coffin,
And the sexton walk’d before,
And the sexton walk’d before.
“The priest followed the coffin,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
The priest followed the coffin,
And the gravedigger walked in front,
And the gravedigger walked in front.”
“And there above his coffin,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
There sings a little swallow:
Sleep there, thy toils are o’er,
Sleep there, thy toils are o’er.”
“And there above his coffin,
Birrandón, birrandón, birrandéra!
A little swallow sings:
Rest here, your struggles are done,
Rest here, your struggles are done.”
p. 171THE ENGLISH GYPSIES
p. 172TUGNEY BESHOR
The Romany Chals
Should jin so bute
As the Puro Beng
To scape of gueros
And wafo gorgies
The wafodupen.
The Romany Chals
Should go so far
As the Pure Bends
To escape from outsiders
And watch over others
The outsiders.
They lels our gryor,
They lels our wardoes,
And wusts us then
Drey starripenes
To mer of pishens
And buklipen.
They lels our gryor,
They lels our wardoes,
And wusts us then
Drey starripenes
To mer of pishens
And buklipen.
Cauna volélan
Muley pappins
Pawdle the len
Men artavàvam
Of gorgio foky
The wafodupen.
Ley teero sollohanloinus
opreylis!
Cauna volélan
Muley pappins
Pawdle the len
Men artavàvam
Of gorgio foky
The wafodupen.
Ley teero sollohanloinus
opreylis!
p. 173SORROWFUL YEARS
The wit and the skill
Of the Father of ill,
Who’s clever indeed,
If they would hope
With their foes to cope
The Romany need.
The wit and the skill
Of the Father of evil,
Who’s truly clever,
If they want to hope
To deal with their enemies
The Romany need.
Our horses they take,
Our waggons they break,
And us they fling
Into horrid cells,
Where hunger dwells
And vermin sting.
Our horses they take,
Our wagons they break,
And they throw us
Into dreadful cells,
Where hunger lurks
And pests bite.
When the dead swallow
The fly shall follow
Across the river,
O we’ll forget
The wrongs we’ve met,
But till then O never:
Brother, of that be certain.
When the dead take in
The fly will follow
Across the river,
Oh, we’ll forget
The wrongs we’ve faced,
But until then, oh never:
Brother, you can be sure of that.
p. 174THEIR HISTORY
The English Gypsies call themselves Romany Chals and Romany Chies, that is, Sons and Daughters of Rome. When speaking to each other, they say “Pal” and “Pen”; that is, brother and sister. All people not of their own blood they call “Gorgios,” or Gentiles. Gypsies first made their appearance in England about the year 1480. They probably came from France, where tribes of the race had long been wandering about under the names of Bohemians and Egyptians. In England they pursued the same kind of merripen [174] which they and their ancestors had pursued on the Continent. They roamed about in bands, consisting of thirty, sixty, or ninety families, with light, creaking carts, drawn by horses and donkeys, encamping at night in the spots they deemed convenient. The women told fortunes at the castle of the baron and the cottage of the yeoman; filched gold and silver coins from the counters of money-changers; caused the death of hogs in farmyards, by means of a stuff called drab or drao, which affects the brain, but does not corrupt the blood; and subsequently begged, and generally obtained, the carcases. The men plied tinkering and brasiery, now and then stole horses, and occasionally ventured upon highway robbery. The writer has here placed the Chies before the Chals, because, as he has frequently had occasion to observe, the Gypsy women are by far more p. 175remarkable beings than the men. It is the Chi and not the Chal who has caused the name of Gypsy to be a sound awaking wonder, awe, and curiosity in every part of the civilised world. Not that there have never been remarkable men of the Gypsy race both abroad and at home. Duke Michael, as he was called, the leader of the great Gypsy horde which suddenly made its appearance in Germany at the beginning of the fifteenth century, was no doubt a remarkable man; the Gitano Condre, whom Martin del Rio met at Toledo a hundred years afterwards, who seemed to speak all languages, and to be perfectly acquainted with the politics of all the Courts of Europe, must certainly have been a remarkable man; so, no doubt, here at home was Boswell; so undoubtedly was Cooper, called by the gentlemen of the Fives Court—poor fellows! they are all gone now—the “wonderful little Gypsy”;—but upon the whole the poetry, the sorcery, the devilry, if you please to call it so, are vastly on the side of the women. How blank and inanimate is the countenance of the Gypsy man, even when trying to pass off a foundered donkey as a flying dromedary, in comparison with that of the female Romany, peering over the wall of a par-yard at a jolly hog!
The English Gypsies call themselves Romany Chals and Romany Chies, meaning Sons and Daughters of Rome. When they talk to each other, they say “Pal” and “Pen,” which means brother and sister. Everyone not of their own blood they refer to as “Gorgios,” or Gentiles. Gypsies first appeared in England around 1480. They probably came from France, where groups of their people had been wandering for a long time under the names of Bohemians and Egyptians. In England, they continued the same kind of merripen [174] that they and their ancestors had followed on the Continent. They traveled in groups of thirty, sixty, or ninety families with light, creaking carts pulled by horses and donkeys, camping at night wherever they found suitable spots. The women told fortunes at the baron's castle and the yeoman's cottage; they swiped gold and silver coins from money-changers; they caused the death of pigs in farmyards using a substance called drab or drao, which affects the brain but doesn't spoil the blood; and afterward, they begged and usually received the carcasses. The men did tinkering and metalwork, occasionally stole horses, and sometimes tried highway robbery. The writer has mentioned the Chies before the Chals because, as he has often observed, Gypsy women are much more remarkable than the men. It's the Chi, not the Chal, who has made the name Gypsy evoke wonder, awe, and curiosity everywhere in the civilized world. Not that there haven't been remarkable Gypsy men both abroad and at home. Duke Michael, as he was known, the leader of the large Gypsy group that suddenly appeared in Germany at the start of the fifteenth century, was certainly a remarkable man; the Gitano Condre, whom Martin del Rio met in Toledo a hundred years later, who seemed to speak every language and was fully informed about the politics of all the Courts of Europe, must have been remarkable too; and of course, there was Boswell here at home; and Cooper, called by the gentlemen of the Fives Court—poor fellows! they are all gone now—the “wonderful little Gypsy”;—but overall, the poetry, the sorcery, the devilry, if you want to call it that, definitely leans towards the women. How blank and lifeless the expression of the Gypsy man looks, even when he tries to pass off a broken-down donkey as a flying dromedary, compared to the female Romany peering over the wall of a pigpen at a cheerful hog!
Sar shin Sinfye?
Koshto divvus, Romany Chi!
So shan tute kairing acoi?How's it going, Sinfye?
Good day, Daughter of Rome!
What are you up to here?Sinfye, Sinfye! how do you do?
Daughter of Rome, good day to you!
What are you thinking here to do?Sinfye, Sinfye! How are you?
Daughter of Rome, good day to you!
What are you planning to do here?
p. 176After a time the evil practices of the Gypsies began to be noised about, and terrible laws were enacted against people “using the manner of Egyptians”—Chies were scourged by dozens, Chals hung by scores. Throughout the reign of Elizabeth there was a terrible persecution of the Gypsy race; far less, however, on account of the crimes which they actually committed, than from a suspicion which was entertained that they harboured amidst their companies priests and emissaries of Rome, who had come to England for the purpose of sowing sedition and inducing the people to embrace again the old discarded superstition. This suspicion, however, was entirely without foundation. The Gypsies call each other brother and sister, and are not in the habit of admitting to their fellowship people of a different blood and with whom they have no sympathy. There was, however, a description of wandering people at that time, even as there is at present, with whom the priests, who are described as going about, sometimes disguised as serving-men, sometimes as broken soldiers, sometimes as shipwrecked mariners, would experience no difficulty in associating, and with whom, in all probability, they occasionally did associate—the people called in Acts of Parliament sturdy beggars and vagrants, in the old cant language Abraham men, and in the modern Pikers. These people have frequently been confounded with the Gypsies, but are in reality a distinct race, though they resemble the latter in some points. They roam about like the Gypsies, and, like them, have a kind of secret language. But the Gypsies are a people of Oriental p. 177origin, whilst the Abrahamites are the scurf of the English body corporate. The language of the Gypsies is a real language, more like the Sanscrit than any other language in the world; whereas the speech of the Abrahamites is a horrid jargon, composed for the most part of low English words used in an allegorical sense—a jargon in which a stick is called a crack; a hostess, a rum necklace; a bar-maid, a dolly-mort; brandy, rum booze; a constable, a horny. But enough of these Pikers, these Abrahamites. Sufficient to observe that if the disguised priests associated with wandering companies it must have been with these people, who admit anybody to their society, and not with the highly exclusive race the Gypsies.
p. 176After a while, the bad behavior of the Gypsies began to spread, leading to harsh laws against those “using the ways of Egyptians”—Gypsies were whipped by the dozens, and men were hanged by the scores. Throughout Elizabeth's reign, there was intense persecution of the Gypsy community; mostly not because of actual crimes they committed, but due to a suspicion that they harbored priests and agents from Rome among them, who had come to England to incite rebellion and draw the people back to the old, discarded superstitions. However, that suspicion was completely unfounded. The Gypsies refer to each other as brother and sister and typically don't let outsiders in who they don't relate to. There was, however, a group of wandering people at that time, much like today, with whom the priests, who are described as moving around sometimes dressed as servants, sometimes as disgraced soldiers, and sometimes as shipwrecked sailors, would have found it easy to connect, and likely did connect with them occasionally—people referred to in Acts of Parliament as sturdy beggars and vagrants, known in old slang as Abraham men, and now as Pikers. These people have frequently been confused with the Gypsies but are actually a separate group, though they share some similarities. They wander like the Gypsies and have their own kind of secret language. But the Gypsies are of Eastern origin, while the Abrahamites are the dregs of English society. The language of the Gypsies is a true language, more akin to Sanskrit than any other language in the world; while the speech of the Abrahamites is a horrible jargon, mostly made up of low English words used in a figurative sense—a jargon where a stick is called a crack; a hostess, a rum necklace; a barmaid, a dolly-mort; brandy, rum booze; and a constable, a horny. But that's enough about these Pikers, these Abrahamites. It’s enough to note that if the disguised priests were to associate with roving groups, it must have been with these people, who accept anyone into their company, not with the highly selective Gypsy community. p. 177
For nearly a century and a half after the death of Elizabeth the Gypsies seem to have been left tolerably to themselves, for the laws are almost silent respecting them. Chies, no doubt, were occasionally scourged for cauring, that is filching gold and silver coins, and Chals hung for grychoring, that is horse-stealing; but those are little incidents not much regarded in Gypsy merripen. They probably lived a life during the above period tolerably satisfactory to themselves—they are not an ambitious people, and there is no word for glory in their language—but next to nothing is known respecting them. A people called Gypsies are mentioned, and to a certain extent treated of, in two remarkable works—one a production of the seventeenth, the other of the eighteenth century—the first entitled the ‘English Rogue, or the Adventures of Merriton Latroon,’ the other the ‘Life of Bamfield Moore Carew’; but those works, though p. 178clever and entertaining, and written in the raciest English, are to those who seek for information respecting Gypsies entirely valueless, the writers having evidently mistaken for Gypsies the Pikers or Abrahamites, as the vocabularies appended to the histories, and which are professedly vocabularies of the Gypsy language, are nothing of the kind, but collections of words and phrases belonging to the Abrahamite or Piker jargon. At the commencement of the last century, and for a considerable time afterwards, there was a loud cry raised against the Gypsy women for stealing children. This cry, however, was quite as devoid of reason as the suspicion entertained of old against the Gypsy communities of harbouring disguised priests. Gypsy women, as the writer had occasion to remark many a long year ago, have plenty of children of their own, and have no wish to encumber themselves with those of other people. A yet more extraordinary charge was, likewise, brought against them—that of running away with wenches. Now, the idea of Gypsy women running away with wenches! Where were they to stow them in the event of running away with them? and what were they to do with them in the event of being able to stow them? Nevertheless, two Gypsy women were burnt in the hand in the most cruel and frightful manner, somewhat about the middle of the last century, and two Gypsy men, their relations, sentenced to be hanged, for running away with a certain horrible wench of the name of Elizabeth Canning, who, to get rid of a disgraceful burden, had left her service and gone into concealment for a month, and on her return, in order to p. 179account for her absence, said that she had been run away with by Gypsies. The men, however, did not undergo their sentence; for, ere the day appointed for their execution arrived, suspicions beginning to be entertained with respect to the truth of the wench’s story, they were reprieved, and, after a little time, the atrocious creature, who had charged people with doing what they neither did nor dreamt of doing, was tried for perjury, convicted, and sentenced to transportation. Yet so great is English infatuation that this Canning, this Elizabeth, had a host of friends, who stood by her, and swore by her to the last, and almost freighted the ship which carried her away with goods, the sale of which enabled her to purchase her freedom of the planter to whom she was consigned, to establish herself in business, and to live in comfort, and almost in luxury, in the New World during the remainder of her life.
For nearly a hundred and fifty years after Elizabeth's death, the Gypsies seemed to have been mostly left alone, as the laws are pretty quiet about them. Sure, some were occasionally punished for stealing, and some were hanged for horse theft, but those were minor incidents that didn't bother the Gypsy community much. They likely lived reasonably well during this time—they aren’t an ambitious group, and there’s no word for glory in their vocabulary—but not much is known about them. Gypsies are mentioned, and somewhat discussed, in two notable works—one from the seventeenth century and the other from the eighteenth century—the first called ‘English Rogue, or the Adventures of Merriton Latroon’ and the other ‘Life of Bamfield Moore Carew.’ However, these works, while clever and engaging and written in lively English, are completely useless for those looking for factual information about Gypsies because the authors mistakenly identified the Pikers or Abrahamites as Gypsies. The vocabularies attached to the histories, which claim to be Gypsy language collections, are actually just lists of words and phrases from the Abrahamite or Piker dialect. At the start of the last century, and for quite a while after, there was a loud outcry about Gypsy women supposedly stealing children. This accusation was just as unfounded as the old suspicions that Gypsy groups were hiding disguised priests. Gypsy women, as I noted many years ago, have plenty of children of their own and don’t want to burden themselves with other people's kids. An even stranger accusation was leveled against them—that they were running off with young women. The idea of Gypsy women running away with other women is absurd! Where would they even hide them, and what would they do with them if they could? Yet, two Gypsy women were brutally punished in the middle of the last century, and two of their male relatives were sentenced to be hanged for supposedly abducting a certain young woman named Elizabeth Canning, who had left her job and gone into hiding for a month to escape a shameful situation. When she returned, to explain her absence, she claimed that Gypsies had taken her. However, the men didn’t end up facing their punishment; as the day of their execution approached, doubts arose about the truth of her story, and they were given a reprieve. Not long after, that despicable woman, who falsely accused people of things they hadn’t done, was tried for perjury, found guilty, and sentenced to transportation. Yet, English delusion was so strong that Elizabeth Canning had a bunch of supporters who backed her until the end and nearly loaded the ship that took her away with goods, the sale of which allowed her to buy her freedom from the planter she was assigned to, enabling her to set up a business and live comfortably—almost luxuriously—in the New World for the rest of her life.
But though Gypsies have occasionally experienced injustice; though Patricos and Sherengroes were hanged by dozens in Elizabeth’s time on suspicion of harbouring disguised priests; though Gypsy women in the time of the Second George, accused of running away with wenches, were scorched and branded, there can be no doubt that they live in almost continual violation of the laws intended for the protection of society; and it may be added, that in this illegal way of life the women have invariably played a more important part than the men. Of them, amongst other things, it may be said that they are the most accomplished swindlers in the world, their principal victims being people of their own sex, on whose credulity and p. 180superstition they practise. Mary Caumlo, or Lovel, was convicted a few years ago at Cardiff of having swindled a surgeon’s wife of eighty pounds, under pretence of propitiating certain planets by showing them the money. Not a penny of the booty was ever recovered by the deluded victim; and the Caumli, on leaving the dock, after receiving sentence of a year’s imprisonment, turned round and winked to some brother or sister in court, as much as to say: “Mande has gared the luvvu; mande is kek atugni for the besh’s starripen”—“I have hid the money, and care nothing for the year’s imprisonment.” Young Rawnie P. of N., the daughter of old Rawnie P., suddenly disappeared with the whole capital of an aged and bedridden gentlewoman, amounting to nearly three hundred pounds, whom she had assured that if she were intrusted with it for a short time she should be able to gather certain herbs, from which she could make decoctions, which would restore to the afflicted gentlewoman all her youthful vigour. Mrs. Townsley of the Border was some time ago in trouble at Wick, only twenty-five miles distant from Johnny Groat’s House, on a charge of fraudulently obtaining from a fisherman’s wife one shilling, two half-crowns, and a five-pound note by promising to untie certain witch-locks, which she had induced her to believe were entwined in the meshes of the fisherman’s net, and would, if suffered to remain, prevent him from catching a single herring in the Firth. These events occurred within the last few years, and are sufficiently notorious. They form a triad out of dozens of a similar kind, in some of which there p. 181are features so odd, so strangely droll, that indignation against the offence is dispelled by an irresistible desire to laugh.
But even though Gypsies have sometimes faced injustice; even though Patricos and Sherengroes were hanged by the dozens in Elizabeth’s era on suspicion of hiding disguised priests; even though Gypsy women during the reign of George II, accused of running away with young girls, were tortured and branded, there's no doubt that they lead lives that almost continually violate the laws meant to protect society. It's worth adding that in this illegal lifestyle, women have consistently played a more significant role than men. Among other things, it's said that they are the best con artists in the world, primarily targeting other women, exploiting their gullibility and superstitions. A few years ago, Mary Caumlo, or Lovel, was convicted in Cardiff for swindling a surgeon’s wife out of eighty pounds, claiming she could appease certain planets by displaying the money. Not a penny of the stolen money was ever recovered by the fooled victim; and as Caumlo left the dock after being sentenced to a year in prison, she turned and winked at some *brother* or *sister* in the courtroom, as if to say: “*I’ve hidden the money, and I don’t care about the year in prison.*” Young Rawnie P. of N., the daughter of old Rawnie P., suddenly vanished with the entire savings of an elderly and bedridden lady, which totaled nearly three hundred pounds. She had convinced the lady that if she were entrusted with the money for a short time, she could gather certain herbs to make potions that would restore the lady's youthful vitality. Mrs. Townsley of the Border was recently in trouble in Wick, only twenty-five miles from Johnny Groat’s House, charged with fraudulently taking from a fisherman’s wife one shilling, two half-crowns, and a five-pound note by claiming she would untie certain witch-locks that the woman believed were tangled in the fisherman’s net, which would prevent him from catching any herring in the Firth. These incidents happened within the last few years and are well known. They form a trio out of dozens of similar cases, some of which have such bizarre and amusing elements that any indignation toward the crime is replaced by an uncontrollable urge to laugh.
But Gypsyism is declining, and its days are numbered. There is a force abroad which is doomed to destroy it, a force which never sleepeth either by day or night, and which will not allow the Roman people rest for the soles of their feet. That force is the Rural Police, which, had it been established at the commencement instead of towards the middle of the present century, would have put down Gypsyism long ago. But, recent as its establishment has been, observe what it has produced. Walk from London to Carlisle, but neither by the road’s side, nor on heath or common, will you see a single Gypsy tent. True Gypsyism consists in wandering about, in preying upon the Gentiles, but not living amongst them. But such a life is impossible in these days; the Rural Force will not permit it. “It is a hard thing, brother,” said old Agamemnon Caumlo to the writer, several years ago; “it is a hard thing, after one has pitched one’s little tent, lighted one’s little fire, and hung one’s kettle by the kettle-iron over it to boil, to have an inspector or constable come up, and say, ‘What are you doing here? Take yourself off, you Gypsy dog!’” A hard thing, indeed, old Agamemnon; but there is no help for it. You must e’en live amongst the Gorgios. And for years past the Gypsies have lived amongst the Gorgios, and what has been the result? They do not seem to have improved the Gentiles, and have certainly not been improved by them. By living amongst the Gentiles they have, to a certain extent, p. 182lost the only two virtues they possessed. Whilst they lived apart on heaths and commons, and in shadowy lanes, the Gypsy women were paragons of chastity, and the men, if not exactly patterns of sobriety, were, upon the whole, very sober fellows. Such terms, however, are by no means applicable to them at the present day. Sects and castes, even of thieves and murderers, can exist as long as they have certain virtues, which give them a kind of respect in their own eyes; but, losing those virtues, they soon become extinct. When the salt loses its savour, what becomes of it? The Gypsy salt has not altogether lost its savour, but that essential quality is every day becoming fainter, so that there is every reason to suppose that within a few years the English Gypsy caste will have disappeared, merged in the dregs of the English population.
But Gypsy culture is fading, and it's only a matter of time before it disappears. There’s an unstoppable force out there determined to wipe it out, a force that never rests, day or night, and won't let the Romani people find peace. That force is the Rural Police, which, if it had been set up earlier instead of midway through this century, would have quashed Gypsy culture long ago. But even with its recent establishment, look at what it has achieved. If you walk from London to Carlisle, you won’t see a single Gypsy tent by the roadside, in the heath, or on common land. True Gypsy life means wandering around and living off the locals, not settling among them. But that way of life isn’t possible anymore; the Rural Police won’t allow it. “It’s a tough situation, brother,” old Agamemnon Caumlo told me several years ago. “It’s hard after you’ve set up your little tent, lit your small fire, and hung your kettle over it to boil, to have an inspector or officer come up and say, ‘What are you doing here? Get lost, you Gypsy!’” A tough situation indeed, old Agamemnon; but it’s just how it is. You have to live among the Gorgios. For years now, the Gypsies have been living among the Gorgios, and what’s the result? They don’t seem to have improved the locals, and they certainly haven’t benefited from them. By living among the locals, they’ve, to some extent, lost the only two virtues they had. When they lived separately on heaths and commons, and in secluded lanes, the Gypsy women were examples of chastity, and the men, if not entirely teetotalers, were generally pretty sober. Those descriptions, however, don’t apply to them today. Groups and classes, even among thieves and murderers, can survive as long as they maintain certain virtues, which lend them a sense of respect in their own eyes; but once they lose those virtues, they quickly fade away. When salt loses its flavor, what happens to it? The Gypsy salt hasn’t completely lost its flavor, but that vital quality is fading every day, so there’s every reason to think that within a few years, the English Gypsy community will have vanished, blending into the remnants of the English population.
p. 183GYPSY NAMES
p. 185There are many curious things connected with the Gypsies, but perhaps nothing more so than what pertains to their names. They have a double nomenclature, each tribe or family having a public and a private name, one by which they are known to the Gentiles, and another to themselves alone. Their public names are quite English; their private ones attempts, some of them highly singular and uncouth, to render those names by Gypsy equivalents. Gypsy names may be divided into two classes, names connected with trades, and surnames or family names. First of all, something about trade names.
p. 185There are many interesting things about the Gypsies, but maybe nothing is more curious than their names. They have a dual naming system, with each tribe or family having a public name and a private name—one they use with outsiders and another for themselves. Their public names are quite English, while their private names are attempts—some quite unique and awkward—to translate those names into Gypsy equivalents. Gypsy names can be categorized into two types: names related to trades and surnames or family names. First, let’s talk about trade names.
There are only two names of trades which have been adopted by English Gypsies as proper names, Cooper and Smith: these names are expressed in the English Gypsy dialect by Vardo-mescro and Petulengro. The first of these renderings is by no means a satisfactory one, as Vardo-mescro means a cartwright, or rather a carter. To speak the truth, it would be next to impossible to render the word ‘cooper’ into English Gypsy, or indeed into Gypsy of any kind; a cooper, according to the p. 186common acceptation of the word, is one who makes pails, tubs, and barrels, but there are no words in Gypsy for such vessels. The Transylvanian Gypsies call a cooper a bedra-kero or pail-maker, but bedra is not Gypsy, but Hungarian, and the English Gypsies might with equal propriety call a cooper a pail-engro. On the whole the English Gypsies did their best when they rendered ‘cooper’ into their language by the word for ‘cartwright.’
There are only two trade names that English Gypsies use as proper names: Cooper and Smith. In the English Gypsy dialect, these are expressed as Vardo-mescro and Petulengro. The first translation isn't very accurate because Vardo-mescro actually means cartwright, or more specifically, carter. Honestly, it's almost impossible to translate the word ‘cooper’ into English Gypsy, or any type of Gypsy for that matter; a cooper, by the p. 186common definition, makes pails, tubs, and barrels, but there aren't any words in Gypsy for those items. Transylvanian Gypsies refer to a cooper as a bedra-kero or pail-maker, but bedra isn't Gypsy; it's Hungarian. The English Gypsies could just as easily call a cooper a pail-engro. Overall, the English Gypsies did their best when they translated ‘cooper’ in their language to mean ‘cartwright.’
Petulengro, the other trade name, is borne by the Gypsies who are known to the public by the English appellation of Smith. It is not very easy to say what is the exact meaning of Petulengro: it must signify, however, either horseshoe-fellow or tinker: petali or petala signifies in Gypsy a horseshoe, and is probably derived from the Modern Greek πέταλον; engro is an affix, and is either derived from or connected with the Sanscrit kara, to make, so that with great feasibility Petulengro may be translated horseshoe-maker. But bedel in Hebrew means ‘tin,’ and as there is little more difference between petul and bedel than between petul and petalon, Petulengro may be translated with almost equal feasibility by tinker or tin-worker, more especially as tinkering is a principal pursuit of Gypsies, and to jal petulengring signifies to go a-tinkering in English Gypsy. Taken, however, in either sense, whether as horseshoe-maker or tin-worker (and, as has been already observed, it must mean one or the other), Petulengro may be considered as a tolerably fair rendering of the English Smith.
Petulengro, the other name used by the Gypsies, is known to the public as Smith. It’s not easy to determine the exact meaning of Petulengro: it must signify either horseshoe-maker or tinker. In Gypsy, petali or petala means a horseshoe and likely comes from the Modern Greek πέταλον; engro is a suffix that relates to the Sanskrit kara, which means to make, so it’s reasonable to translate Petulengro as horseshoe-maker. However, bedel in Hebrew means ‘tin,’ and since there’s little difference between petul and bedel compared to petul and petalon, Petulengro could also mean tinker or tin-worker, especially since tinkering is a main occupation of Gypsies, and jal petulengring means to go tinkering in English Gypsy. In either case, whether as horseshoe-maker or tin-worker (and, as noted, it must mean one or the other), Petulengro can be seen as a fairly accurate translation of the English Smith.
So much for the names of the Gypsies which p. 187the writer has ventured to call the trade names; now for those of the other class. These are English surnames, and for the most part of a highly aristocratic character, and it seems at first surprising that people so poor and despised as Gypsies should be found bearing names so time-honoured and imposing. There is, however, a tolerable explanation of the matter in the supposition that on their first arrival in England the different tribes sought the protection of certain grand powerful families, and were permitted by them to locate themselves on their heaths and amid their woodlands, and that they eventually adopted the names of their patrons. Here follow the English names of some of the principal tribes, with the Romany translations or equivalents:—
So much for the names of the Gypsies, which p. 187 the writer has referred to as trade names; now let's look at those from the other group. These are English last names, mostly from very aristocratic backgrounds, and it seems surprising at first that people as poor and marginalized as Gypsies would carry such long-established and impressive names. However, there's a reasonable explanation: when they first arrived in England, different tribes likely sought the protection of certain powerful families and were allowed by them to settle on their heaths and in their woodlands, eventually taking on the names of their benefactors. Below are the English names of some of the main tribes, along with their Romany translations or equivalents:—
Boswell.—The proper meaning of this word is the town of Bui. The initial Bo or Bui is an old Northern name, signifying a colonist or settler, one who tills and builds. It was the name of a great many celebrated Northern kempions, who won land and a home by hard blows. The last syllable, well, is the French ville: Boswell, Boston, and Busby all signify one and the same thing—the town of Bui—the well being French, the ton Saxon, and the by Danish; they are half-brothers of Bovil and Belville, both signifying fair town, and which ought to be written Beauville and Belville. The Gypsies, who know and care nothing about etymologies, confounding bos with buss, a vulgar English verb not to be found in dictionaries, which signifies to kiss, rendered the name Boswell by Chumomisto, that is, Kisswell, or one who kisses p. 188well—choom in their language signifying to kiss, and misto well—likewise by choomomescro, a kisser. Vulgar as the word buss may sound at present, it is by no means of vulgar origin, being connected with the Latin basio and the Persian bousè.
Boswell.—The true meaning of this word is the town of Bui. The beginning Bo or Bui is an old Northern name that means a colonist or settler, someone who farms and builds. It was the name of many famous Northern kempions who earned land and a home through hard work. The last part, well, comes from the French ville: Boswell, Boston, and Busby all mean the same thing—the town of Bui—the well being French, ton being Saxon, and by being Danish; they are half-brothers to Bovil and Belville, both meaning beautiful town, which should be written Beauville and Belville. The Gypsies, who don’t know or care about origins, mixed up bos with buss, a slang English word not found in dictionaries, which means to kiss, turning the name Boswell into Chumomisto, which means Kisswell, or someone who kisses p. 188well—choom in their language meaning to kiss, and misto meaning well—also as choomomescro, a kisser. While the word buss might sound crude today, it actually has a respectable origin, being connected to the Latin basio and the Persian bousè.
Grey.—This is the name of a family celebrated in English history. The Gypsies who adopted it, rendered it into their language by Gry, a word very much resembling it in sound, though not in sense, for gry, which is allied to the Sanscrit ghora, signifies a horse. They had no better choice, however, for in Romany there is no word for grey, any more than there is for green or blue. In several languages there is a difficulty in expressing the colour which in English is called grey. In Celtic, for instance, there is no definite word for it; glas, it is true, is used to express it, but glas is as frequently used to express green as it is to express grey.
Gray.—This is the name of a family well-known in English history. The Gypsies who took on this name translated it into their language as Gry, a word that sounds similar but has a different meaning, since gry, which is related to the Sanskrit ghora, means a horse. They didn't have a better option, though, because in Romany there is no word for grey, just like there isn't one for green or blue. In several languages, it's challenging to express the color that in English is called grey. In Celtic, for instance, there isn't a specific word for it; glas, while it is used to refer to grey, is just as often used to mean green.
Hearne, Herne.—This is the name of a family which bears the heron for its crest, the name being either derived from the crest, or the crest from the name. There are two Gypsy renderings of the word—Rossar-mescro or Ratzie-mescro, and Balorengre. Rossar-mescro signifies duck-fellow, the duck being substituted for the heron, for which there is no word in Romany. The meaning of Balor-engre is hairy people; the translator or translators seeming to have confounded Hearne with ‘haaren,’ old English for hairs. The latter rendering has never been much in use.
Hearne, Herne.—This is the name of a family that features a heron as its crest, with the name possibly coming from the crest or the crest from the name. There are two Romani interpretations of the word—Rossar-mescro or Ratzie-mescro, and Balorengre. Rossar-mescro means duck-fellow, as the duck is used in place of the heron since there isn’t a word for heron in Romani. The meaning of Balor-engre is hairy people; the translator or translators seem to have confused Hearne with ‘haaren,’ an old English term for hairs. This latter interpretation has not been very common.
Lee.—The Gypsy name of this tribe is Purrum, sometimes pronounced Purrun. The meaning of Purrurn is an onion, and it may be asked what p. 189connection can there be between Lee and onion? None whatever: but there is some resemblance in sound between Lee and leek, and it is probable that the Gypsies thought so, and on that account rendered the name by Purrum, which, if not exactly a leek, at any rate signifies something which is cousin-german to a leek. It must be borne in mind that in some parts of England the name Lee is spelt Legh and Leigh, which would hardly be the case if at one time it had not terminated in something like a guttural, so that when the Gypsies rendered the name, perhaps nearly four hundred years ago, it sounded very much like ‘leek,’ and perhaps was Leek, a name derived from the family crest. At first the writer was of opinion that the name was Purrun, a modification of pooro, which in the Gypsy language signifies old, but speedily came to the conclusion that it must be Purrum, a leek or onion; for what possible reason could the Gypsies have for rendering Lee by a word which signifies old or ancient? whereas by rendering it by Purrum, they gave themselves a Gypsy name, which, if it did not signify Lee, must to their untutored minds have seemed a very good substitute for Lee. The Gypsy word pooro, old, belongs to Hindostan, and is connected with the Sanscrit pura, which signifies the same. Purrum is a modification of the Wallachian pur, a word derived from the Latin porrum, an onion, and picked up by the Gypsies in Roumania or Wallachia, the natives of which region speak a highly curious mixture of Latin and Sclavonian.
Lee.—The Gypsy name for this tribe is Purrum, sometimes pronounced Purrun. The meaning of Purrum is an onion, and one might wonder what p. 189connection there is between Lee and onion? None at all: but there is some similarity in sound between Lee and leek, and it's likely that the Gypsies thought so, which is why they used the name Purrum, which, if not exactly a leek, at least means something related to a leek. It’s important to note that in some parts of England, the name Lee is spelled Legh and Leigh, which would probably not be the case if it hadn’t originally ended in something like a guttural sound, so when the Gypsies translated the name nearly four hundred years ago, it probably sounded a lot like ‘leek,’ and may have been Leek, a name derived from the family crest. Initially, the writer thought the name was Purrun, a variation of pooro, which in the Gypsy language means old, but quickly came to the conclusion that it must be Purrum, a leek or onion; because what reason would the Gypsies have to use a word that means old or ancient to represent Lee? By choosing Purrum, they created a Gypsy name, which, if it didn’t mean Lee, must have seemed like a good alternative to them. The Gypsy word pooro, meaning old, comes from Hindostan and is related to the Sanskrit pura, which has the same meaning. Purrum is a variation of the Wallachian word pur, which comes from the Latin porrum, meaning onion, and was adopted by the Gypsies in Romania or Wallachia, where the locals speak a unique mix of Latin and Slavic languages.
Lovel.—This is the name or title of an old and powerful English family. The meaning of it is p. 190Leo’s town, Lowe’s town, or Louis’ town. The Gypsies, who adopted it, seem to have imagined that it had something to do with love, for they translated it by Camlo or Caumlo, that which is lovely or amiable, and also by Camomescro, a lover, an amorous person, sometimes used for ‘friend.’ Camlo is connected with the Sanscrit Cama, which signifies love, and is the appellation of the Hindoo god of love. A name of the same root as the one borne by that divinity was not altogether inapplicable to the Gypsy tribe who adopted it: Cama, if all tales be true, was black, black though comely, a Beltenebros, and the Lovel tribe is decidedly the most comely and at the same time the darkest of all the Anglo-Egyptian families. The faces of many of them, male and female, are perfect specimens of black beauty. They are generally called by the race the Kaulo Camloes, the Black Comelies. And here, though at the risk of being thought digressive, the writer cannot forbear saying that the darkest and at one time the comeliest of all the Caumlies, a celebrated fortune-teller, and an old friend of his, lately expired in a certain old town, after attaining an age which was something wonderful. She had twenty-one brothers and sisters, and was the eldest of the family, on which account she was called “Rawnie P., pooroest of bis ta dui,” Lady P.—she had married out of the family—eldest of twenty-two.
Lovel.—This is the name or title of an ancient and powerful English family. The meaning of it is p. 190Leo’s town, Lowe’s town, or Louis’ town. The Gypsies who adopted it seem to have thought it was related to love, as they translated it to Camlo or Caumlo, which means lovely or amiable, and also to Camomescro, meaning a lover or an affectionate person, sometimes used for ‘friend.’ Camlo is connected to the Sanskrit Cama, which means love and is the name of the Hindu god of love. A name related to the one borne by this deity was not entirely unsuitable for the Gypsy tribe that took it on: Cama, if all stories are true, was black, beautifully dark, a Beltenebros, and the Lovel tribe is definitely the most attractive and at the same time the darkest of all the Anglo-Egyptian families. The faces of many of them, both male and female, are perfect examples of black beauty. They are generally referred to by the race as the Kaulo Camloes, the Black Comelies. And here, even at the risk of seeming off-topic, the writer must mention that the darkest and at one time the most beautiful of all the Caumlies, a famous fortune-teller and an old friend of his, recently passed away in a certain old town after reaching an age that was quite remarkable. She had twenty-one brothers and sisters and was the eldest in the family, which is why she was called “Rawnie P., pooroest of bis ta dui,” Lady P.—she had married out of the family—eldest of twenty-two.
Marshall.—The name Marshall has either to do with marshal, the title of a high military personage, or marches, the borders of contiguous countries. In the early Norman period it was the name of an Earl of Pembroke. The Gypsies who p. 191adopted the name seem in translating it to have been of opinion that it was connected with marshes, for they rendered it by mokkado tan engre, fellows of the wet or miry place, an appellation which at one time certainly became them well, for they are a northern tribe belonging to the Border, a country not very long ago full of mosses and miry places. Though calling themselves English, they are in reality quite as much Scotch as English, and as often to be found in Scotland as the other country, especially in Dumfriesshire and Galloway, in which latter region, in Saint Cuthbert’s churchyard, lies buried ‘the old man’ of the race,—Marshall, who died at the age of 107. They sometimes call themselves Bungyoror and Chikkeneymengre, cork-fellows and china people, which names have reference to the occupations severally followed by the males and females, the former being cutters of bungs and corks, and the latter menders of china.
Marshall.—The name Marshall is either related to "marshal," a title for a high-ranking military officer, or to "marches," the borders between neighboring countries. In the early Norman period, it was the name of an Earl of Pembroke. The Gypsies who p. 191 adopted the name seem to have thought it was linked to marshes when they translated it. They referred to it as mokkado tan engre, meaning fellows of the wet or muddy place, a fitting title at one time, as they are a northern tribe from the Border, an area that was not too long ago filled with moss and bogs. Although they refer to themselves as English, they are just as much Scotch as they are English, often found in Scotland as much as in England, especially in Dumfriesshire and Galloway. In the latter region, in Saint Cuthbert’s churchyard, lies buried ‘the old man’ of their race—Marshall, who lived to be 107. They sometimes call themselves Bungyoror and Chikkeneymengre, meaning cork-fellows and china people, which refer to the jobs commonly held by males and females, with the former being cork and bung cutters, and the latter being china menders.
Stanley.—This is the name or title of an ancient English family celebrated in history. It is probably descriptive of their original place of residence, for it signifies the stony lea, which is also the meaning of the Gaelic Auchinlech, the place of abode of the Scottish Boswells. It was adopted by an English Gypsy tribe, at one time very numerous, but at present much diminished. Of this name there are two renderings into Romany; one is Baryor or Baremescre, stone-folks or stonemasons, the other is Beshaley. The first requires no comment, but the second is well worthy of analysis, as it is an example of the strange blunders which the Gypsies sometimes make in their p. 192attempts at translation. When they rendered Stanley by Beshaley or Beshley, they mistook the first syllable stan for ‘stand,’ but for a very good reason rendered it by besh, which signifies ‘to sit, and the second for a word in their own language, for ley or aley in Gypsy signifies ‘down,’ so they rendered Stanley by Beshley or Beshaley, which signifies ‘sit down.’ Here, of course, it will be asked what reason could have induced them, if they mistook stan for ‘stand,’ not to have rendered it by the Gypsy word for ‘stand’? The reason was a very cogent one, the want of a word in the Gypsy language to express ‘stand’; but they had heard in courts of justice witnesses told to stand down, so they supposed that to stand down was much the same as to sit down, whence their odd rendering of Stanley. In no dialect of the Gypsy, from the Indus to the Severn, is there any word for ‘stand,’ though in every one there is a word for ‘sit,’ and that is besh, and in every Gypsy encampment all along the vast distance, Beshley or Beshaley would be considered an invitation to sit down.
Stanley.—This is the name of an ancient English family known in history. It likely refers to their original home, as it means the stony meadow, which is similar to the Gaelic Auchinlech, the home of the Scottish Boswells. The name was also adopted by a once-large English Gypsy tribe, though it is now much smaller. There are two versions of this name in Romany; one is Baryor or Baremescre, meaning stone folk or stonemasons, and the other is Beshaley. The first is straightforward, but the second deserves some explanation as it illustrates the unusual mistakes Gypsies sometimes make in their attempts at translation. When they translated Stanley as Beshaley or Beshley, they misunderstood the first syllable stan to mean ‘stand,’ but correctly translated it to besh, meaning ‘to sit,’ and interpreted the second part as a word from their own language, since ley or aley in Gypsy means ‘down.’ Thus, they rendered Stanley as Beshley or Beshaley, which translates to ‘sit down.’ This raises the question of why, if they confused stan with ‘stand,’ they didn’t use the Gypsy word for ‘stand’? The answer is that there wasn’t a word in the Gypsy language for ‘stand’; however, they had heard witnesses in courts instructed to “stand down,” so they assumed that standing down was similar to sitting down, leading to their peculiar translation of Stanley. There is no word for ‘stand’ in any Gypsy dialect from the Indus to the Severn, but every dialect does have a word for ‘sit,’ which is besh, and in every Gypsy camp along that vast distance, Beshley or Beshaley would be seen as an invitation to sit down.
So much for the double-name system in use among the Gypsies of England. There is something in connection with the Gypsies of Spain which strangely coincides with one part of it—the translation of names. Among the relics of the language of the Gitanos or Spanish Gypsies are words, some simple and some compound, which are evidently attempts to translate names in a manner corresponding to the plan employed by the English Romany. In illustration of the matter, the writer will give an analysis of Brono Aljenicato, p. 193the rendering into Gitano of the name of one frequently mentioned in the New Testament, and once in the Apostles’ Creed, the highly respectable, but much traduced individual known to the English public as Pontius Pilate, to the Spanish as Poncio Pilato. The manner in which the rendering has been accomplished is as follows: Poncio bears some resemblance to the Spanish puente, which signifies a bridge, and is a modification of the Latin pons, and Pilato to the Spanish pila, a fountain, or rather a stone pillar, from the top of which the waters of a fountain springing eventually fall into a stone basin below, the two words—the Brono Aljenicato—signifying bridge-fountain, or that which is connected with such a thing. Now this is the identical, or all but the identical, way in which the names Lee, Lovel, and Stanley have been done into English Romany. A remarkable instance is afforded in this Gitano Scripture name, this Brono Aljenicato, of the heterogeneous materials of which Gypsy dialects are composed: Brono is a modification of a Hindoo or Sanscrit, Aljenicato of an Arabic root. Brono is connected with the Sanscrit pindala, which signifies a bridge, and Aljenicato is a modification of the Gypsy aljenique, derived from the Arabic alain, which signifies the fountain. But of whatever materials composed, a fine-sounding name is this same Brono Aljenicato, perhaps the finest sounding specimen of Spanish Gypsy extant, much finer than a translation of Pontius Pilate would be, provided the name served to express the same things, in English, which Poncio Pilato serves to express in Spanish, for then it would be Pudjico Pani or Bridgewater; p. 194for though in English Gypsy there is the word for a bridge, namely pudge, a modification of the Persian pul, or the Wallachian podul, there is none for a fountain, which can be only vaguely paraphrased by pani, water.
So much for the double-name system used by the Gypsies of England. There is a related aspect of the Gypsies in Spain that oddly matches one part of it—the translation of names. Among the remnants of the language of the Gitanos or Spanish Gypsies are words, some simple and some compound, which clearly attempt to translate names in a way that aligns with the method used by the English Romany. To illustrate this, the writer will provide an analysis of Brono Aljenicato, p. 193 the Spanish version of the name of a figure often mentioned in the New Testament and once in the Apostles’ Creed, the respectable but frequently misrepresented individual known in English as Pontius Pilate, and in Spanish as Poncio Pilato. The way this translation has been done is as follows: Poncio resembles the Spanish puente, meaning bridge, which is a variation of the Latin pons, and Pilato is related to the Spanish pila, a fountain, or more accurately, a stone pillar from which the water of a fountain eventually flows into a stone basin below, with the two words—the Brono Aljenicato—meaning bridge-fountain, or something related to that concept. This is almost exactly how the names Lee, Lovel, and Stanley have been translated into English Romany. A striking example of the mixed origins of Gypsy dialects is found in this Gitano scriptural name, Brono Aljenicato; Brono is a variation of a Hindu or Sanskrit term, while Aljenicato has an Arabic root. Brono connects to the Sanskrit pindala, which means bridge, and Aljenicato is a variation of the Gypsy aljenique, derived from the Arabic alain, which means fountain. Regardless of its origins, Brono Aljenicato is a beautiful-sounding name, possibly the most aesthetically pleasing example of Spanish Gypsy names still in existence, much more so than a translation of Pontius Pilate would be if it were to express the same concepts in English that Poncio Pilato does in Spanish, as it would then be Pudjico Pani or Bridgewater; p. 194 because while there is a word for bridge in English Gypsy, namely pudge, which is derived from the Persian pul, or the Wallachian podul, there isn’t one for fountain, which can only be loosely paraphrased as pani, meaning water.
p. 195FORTUNE-TELLING
p. 197Gypsy women, as long as we have known anything of Gypsy history, have been arrant fortune-tellers. They plied fortune-telling about France and Germany as early as 1414, the year when the dusky bands were first observed in Europe, and they have never relinquished the practice. There are two words for fortune-telling in Gypsy, bocht and dukkering. Bocht is a Persian word, a modification of, or connected with, the Sanscrit bagya, which signifies ‘fate.’ Dukkering is the modification of a Wallaco-Sclavonian word signifying something spiritual or ghostly. In Eastern European Gypsy, the Holy Ghost is called Swentuno Ducos.
p. 197Romani women, as long as anyone has known anything about Gypsy history, have been notorious fortune-tellers. They were practicing fortune-telling in France and Germany as early as 1414, the year when the dark-skinned groups were first noticed in Europe, and they have never stopped this practice. There are two words for fortune-telling in Gypsy, bocht and dukkering. Bocht is a Persian word, a variation of or related to the Sanskrit bagya, which means 'fate.' Dukkering is derived from a Wallaco-Slavonian word that signifies something spiritual or ghostly. In Eastern European Gypsy culture, the Holy Ghost is referred to as Swentuno Ducos.
Gypsy fortune-telling is much the same everywhere, much the same in Russia as it is in Spain and in England. Everywhere there are three styles—the lofty, the familiar, and the homely; and every Gypsy woman is mistress of all three and uses each according to the rank of the person whose vast she dukkers, whose hand she reads, and adapts the luck she promises. There is a ballad of some antiquity in the Spanish language about the Buena Ventura, a few stanzas of which p. 198translated will convey a tolerable idea of the first of these styles to the reader, who will probably with no great reluctance dispense with any illustrations of the other two:—
Gypsy fortune-telling is pretty similar everywhere, just like it is in Russia, Spain, and England. There are three main styles—elevated, casual, and down-to-earth; and every Gypsy woman masters all three, using each depending on the status of the person whose future she predicts, whose hand she reads, and customizing the fortune she offers. There's an old ballad in Spanish about the Buena Ventura, and a few verses of it p. 198translated will give the reader a good idea of the first of these styles, who will probably not mind missing out on any examples of the other two:—
Late rather one morning
cIn summer’s sweet tide,
Goes forth to the Prado
Jacinta the bride:
Late one morning
in the sweet summer time,
Jacinta the bride
heads out to the Prado:
There meets her a Gypsy
So fluent of talk,
And jauntily dressed,
On the principal walk.
There she meets a Gypsy
So smooth with words,
And stylishly dressed,
On the main path.
“O welcome, thrice welcome,
Of beauty thou flower!
Believe me, believe me,
Thou com’st in good hour.”
“O welcome, three times welcome,
You flower of beauty!
Believe me, believe me,
You come at a perfect time.”
Surprised was Jacinta;
She fain would have fled;
But the Gypsy to cheer her
Such honeyed words said:
Surprised was Jacinta;
She really wanted to run;
But the Gypsy said
Such sweet words to cheer her:
“O cheek like the rose-leaf!
O lady high-born!
Turn thine eyes on thy servant,
But ah, not in scorn.
“O cheek like the rose leaf!
O lady of noble birth!
Look at your servant,
But oh, not with disdain.
“O pride of the Prado!
O joy of our clime!
Thou twice shalt be married,
And happily each time.
“O pride of the Prado!
O joy of our land!
You will be married twice,
And happily each time.
Gypsy females have told fortunes to higher people than the young Countess Jacinta: Modor—of the Gypsy quire of Moscow—told the fortune of Ekatarina, Empress of all the Russias. The writer does not know what the Ziganka told that exalted personage, but it appears that she gave perfect satisfaction to the Empress, who not only presented her with a diamond ring—a Russian diamond ring is not generally of much value—but also her hand to kiss. The writer’s old friend, Pepíta, the Gitana of Madrid, told the bahi of Christina, the Regentess of Spain, in which she assured her that she would marry the son of the King of France, and received from the fair Italian a golden ounce, the most magnificent of coins, a guerdon which she richly merited, for she nearly hit the mark, for though Christina did not marry the son of the King of France, her second daughter was married to a son of the King of France, the Duke of M-, one of the three claimants of the crown of Spain, and the best of the lot; and Britannia, the Caumli, told the good luck to the Regent George on Newmarket Heath, and received ‘foive guineas’ and a hearty smack from him who eventually became George the Fourth—no bad fellow by the by, either as regent or king, though as much abused as Pontius Pilate, whom he much resembled in one point, unwillingness to take life—the sonkaypè or gold-gift being, no doubt, more acceptable than the p. 200choomapé or kiss-gift to the Beltenebrosa, who, if a certain song be true, had no respect for gorgios, however much she liked their money:—
Gypsy women have predicted the future for people more important than the young Countess Jacinta: Modor—from the Gypsy choir of Moscow—read the fortune of Ekatarina, Empress of all the Russias. The writer isn’t sure what the Ziganka told the Empress, but it seems she was completely satisfied, as the Empress not only gave her a diamond ring—a Russian diamond ring isn’t usually very valuable—but also allowed her to kiss her hand. The writer's old friend, Pepíta, the Gitana of Madrid, told the bahi of Christina, the Regentess of Spain, that she would marry the son of the King of France, and received from the lovely Italian a golden ounce, the most magnificent of coins. This reward was well-deserved because she was almost spot on; while Christina didn’t marry the son of the King of France, her second daughter did marry a son of the King of France, the Duke of M-, one of the three claimants to the Spanish crown, and the best of the group. And Britannia, the Caumli, predicted good luck for Regent George on Newmarket Heath, receiving 'five guineas' and a hearty kiss from the man who later became George the Fourth—not a bad guy, either as regent or king, though he faced as much criticism as Pontius Pilate, with whom he shared one trait: an unwillingness to take life—the sonkaypè or gold-gift was surely more appreciated than the p. 200choomapé or kiss-gift to the Beltenebrosa, who, if a certain song is to be believed, had no respect for gorgios, no matter how much she liked their money:—
Britannia is my nav;
I am a Kaulo Camlo;
The gorgios pen I be
A bori chovahaunie;
And tatchipen they pens,
The dinneleskie gorgies,
For mande chovahans
The luvvu from their putsies.
Britannia is my way;
I am a Kaulo Camlo;
I am the fancy pen
A big storyteller;
And they think I write,
The beautiful people,
For real storytellers
The love from their hearts.
Britannia is my name;
I am a swarthy Lovel;
The Gorgios say I be
A witch of wondrous power;
And faith they speak the truth,
The silly, foolish fellows,
For often I bewitch
The money from their pockets.
Britannia is my name;
I am a dark-skinned beauty;
The outsiders say I’m
A witch with amazing powers;
And honestly, they’re right,
Those silly, foolish guys,
Because I often charm
The money right out of their pockets.
Fortune-telling in all countries where the Gypsies are found is frequently the prelude to a kind of trick called in all Gypsy dialects by something more or less resembling the Sanscrit kuhana; for instance, it is called in Spain jojana, hokano, and in English hukni. It is practised in various ways, all very similar; the defrauding of some simple person of money or property being the object in view. Females are generally the victims of the trick, especially those of the middle class, who are more accessible to the poor woman than those of the upper. One of the ways, perhaps the most artful, will be found described in another chapter.
Fortune-telling in all countries where Gypsies are present often leads to a type of trick referred to in various Gypsy dialects with a term that resembles the Sanskrit kuhana; for example, in Spain, it's called jojana or hokano, and in English, it's hukni. It is practiced in different ways, all quite similar, with the intent to deceive a naive person out of their money or belongings. Women are usually the targets of this trick, especially those in the middle class, who are more susceptible to the poor woman than those in the upper class. One of the methods, possibly the most cunning, will be described in another chapter.
p. 201THE HUKNI
The Gypsy makes some poor simpleton of a lady believe that if the latter puts her gold into her hands, and she makes it up into a parcel, and puts it between the lady’s feather-bed and mattress, it will at the end of a month be multiplied a hundredfold, provided the lady does not look at it during all that time. On receiving the money she makes it up into a brown paper parcel, which she seals with wax, turns herself repeatedly round, squints, and spits, and then puts between the feather-bed and mattress—not the parcel of gold, but one exactly like it, which she has prepared beforehand, containing old halfpence, farthings, and the like; then, after cautioning the lady by no means to undo the parcel before the stated time, she takes her departure singing to herself:—
The Gypsy tricks a naive lady into believing that if she hands over her gold, the Gypsy will wrap it up, place it between the lady’s feather-bed and mattress, and it will multiply a hundred times by the end of the month, as long as the lady doesn’t look at it during that time. After getting the money, she wraps it in a brown paper package, seals it with wax, spins around, squints, and spits, then places it between the feather-bed and mattress—not the actual gold, but a duplicate she prepared earlier filled with old pennies, farthings, and the like. After warning the lady not to open the package before the designated time, she leaves while singing to herself:—
O dear me! O dear me!
What dinnelies these gorgies be.Oh no! Oh no!
What a mess these gluttons have made.
The above artifice is called by the English Gypsies the hukni, and by the Spanish hokhano baro, or the great lie. Hukni and hokano were originally one and the same word; the root seems to be the Sanscrit huhanã, lie, trick, deceit.
The trick mentioned above is referred to by the English Gypsies as the hukni, and by the Spanish as hokhano baro, or the great lie. Hukni and hokano were originally the same word; the root appears to be the Sanskrit huhanã, which means lie, trick, or deceit.
p. 202CAURING
The Gypsy has some queer, old-fashioned gold piece; this she takes to some goldsmith’s shop, at the window of which she has observed a basin full of old gold coins, and shows it to the goldsmith, asking him if he will purchase it. He looks at it attentively, and sees that it is of very pure gold; whereupon he says that he has no particular objection to buy it; but that as it is very old it is not of much value, and that he has several like it. “Have you indeed, Master?” says the Gypsy; “then pray show them to me, and I will buy them; for, to tell you the truth, I would rather buy than sell pieces like this, for I have a great respect for them, and know their value: give me back my coin, and I will compare any you have with it.” The goldsmith gives her back her coin, takes his basin of gold from the window, and places it on the counter. The Gypsy puts down her head, and pries into the basin. “Ah, I see nothing here like my coin,” says she. “Now, Master, to oblige me, take out a handful of the coins and lay them on the counter; I am a poor, honest woman, Master, and do not wish to put my hand into your basin. Oh! if I could find one coin like my own, I would give much money for it; barributer than it is worth.” The goldsmith, to oblige the poor, simple, foreign creature (for such he believes her to be), and, with a considerable hope of profit, takes a handful of coins from the basin p. 203and puts them upon the counter. “I fear there is none here like mine, Master,” says the Gypsy, moving the coins rapidly with the tips of her fingers. “No, no, there is not one here like mine—kek yeck, kek yeck—not one, not one. Stay, stay! What’s this, what’s this? So se cavo, so se cavo? Oh, here is one like mine; or if not quite like, like enough to suit me. Now, Master, what will you take for this coin?” The goldsmith looks at it, and names a price considerably above the value; whereupon she says: “Now, Master, I will deal fairly with you: you have not asked me the full value of the coin by three three-groats, three-groats, three-groats; by trin tringurushis, tringurushis, tringurushis. So here’s the money you asked, Master, and three three-groats, three shillings, besides. God bless you, Master! You would have cheated yourself, but the poor woman would not let you; for though she is poor she is honest”: and thus she takes her leave, leaving the goldsmith very well satisfied with his customer—with little reason, however, for out of about twenty coins which he laid on the counter she had filched at least three, which her brown nimble fingers, though they seemingly scarcely touched the gold, contrived to convey up her sleeves. This kind of pilfering is called by the English Gypsies cauring, and by the Spanish ustilar pastesas, or stealing with the fingers. The word caur seems to be connected with the English cower, and the Hebrew kãra, a word of frequent occurrence in the historical part of the Old Testament, and signifying to bend, stoop down, incurvare.
The Gypsy has a strange, old-fashioned gold coin; she takes it to a goldsmith’s shop, where she has noticed a basin full of old gold coins in the window, and shows it to the goldsmith, asking him if he will buy it. He examines it closely and sees that it is made of very pure gold; then he says that he doesn’t mind buying it, but since it is quite old, it isn’t worth much, and that he has several like it. “Oh, really, Master?” says the Gypsy; “then please show them to me, and I will buy them; to be honest, I’d prefer to buy than sell pieces like this, because I have a lot of respect for them and know their value: please give me back my coin, and I will compare any you have to it.” The goldsmith returns her coin, takes the basin of gold from the window, and places it on the counter. The Gypsy leans over, examining the basin. “Ah, I don’t see anything here like my coin,” she says. “Now, Master, as a favor to me, take out a handful of the coins and lay them on the counter; I am a poor, honest woman, Master, and I don’t want to reach into your basin. Oh! if I could find one coin like mine, I would offer a lot of money for it; barributer than it is worth.” The goldsmith, wanting to help the poor, simple, foreign woman (as he believes her to be), and with a decent hope of making a profit, takes a handful of coins from the basin p. 203and sets them on the counter. “I’m afraid there isn't any here like mine, Master,” says the Gypsy, quickly moving the coins with her fingertips. “No, no, not one here like mine—kek yeck, kek yeck—not one, not one. Wait, wait! What’s this, what’s this? So se cavo, so se cavo? Oh, here’s one like mine; or if not exactly like it, close enough for me. Now, Master, how much do you want for this coin?” The goldsmith looks at it and names a price considerably higher than its worth; she replies: “Now, Master, I’ll be honest with you: you haven’t asked me for the full value of the coin by three three-groats, three-groats, three-groats; by trin tringurushis, tringurushis, tringurushis. So here’s the money you asked for, Master, plus three three-groats, three shillings, on top. God bless you, Master! You would have cheated yourself, but the poor woman wouldn’t let you; for even though she is poor, she is honest”: and with that, she leaves, leaving the goldsmith very pleased with his customer—though with little reason, since out of about twenty coins he laid on the counter, she managed to swipe at least three, which her quick, nimble fingers, though they hardly seemed to touch the gold, managed to hide up her sleeves. This type of stealing is called by the English Gypsies cauring, and by the Spanish ustilar pastesas, or stealing with the fingers. The word caur seems to relate to the English cower, and the Hebrew kãra, a term that frequently appears in the historical sections of the Old Testament, meaning to bend, stoop down, incurvare.
p. 205METROPOLITAN GYPSYRIES
p. 207WANDSWORTH, 1864
What may be called the grand Metropolitan Gypsyry is on the Surrey side of the Thames. Near the borders of Wandsworth and Battersea, about a quarter of a mile from the river, is an open piece of ground which may measure about two acres. To the south is a hill, at the foot of which is a railway, and it is skirted on the north by the Wandsworth and Battersea Road. This place is what the Gypsies call a kekkeno mushes puv, a no man’s ground; a place which has either no proprietor, or which the proprietor, for some reason, makes no use of for the present. The houses in the neighbourhood are mean and squalid, and are principally inhabited by artisans of the lowest description. This spot, during a considerable portion of the year, is the principal place of residence of the Metropolitan Gypsies, and of other people whose manner of life more or less resembles theirs. During the summer and autumn the little plain, for such it is, is quite deserted, except that now and then a wretched tent or two may be seen upon it, belonging to p. 208some tinker family, who have put up there for a few hours on their way through the metropolis; for the Gypsies are absent during summer, some at fairs and races, the men with their cocoa-nuts and the women busy at fortune-telling, or at suburban places of pleasure—the former with their donkeys for the young cockneys to ride upon, and the latter as usual dukkering and hokkering, and the other travellers, as they are called, roaming about the country following their particular avocations, whilst in the autumn the greater part of them all are away in Kent, getting money by picking hops. As soon, however, as the rains, the precursors of winter, descend, the place begins to be occupied, and about a week or two before Christmas it is almost crammed with the tents and caravans of the wanderers; and then it is a place well worthy to be explored, notwithstanding the inconvenience of being up to one’s ankles in mud, and the rather appalling risk of being bitten by the Gypsy and travelling dogs tied to the tents and caravans, in whose teeth there is always venom and sometimes that which can bring on the water-horror, for which no European knows a remedy. The following is an attempt to describe the odd people and things to be met with here; the true Gypsies, and what to them pertaineth, being of course noticed first.
What might be called the grand Metropolitan Gypsy community is on the Surrey side of the Thames. Near the borders of Wandsworth and Battersea, about a quarter of a mile from the river, there’s an open area that’s roughly two acres in size. To the south is a hill, at the foot of which there’s a railway, and it is bordered to the north by the Wandsworth and Battersea Road. This place is what the Gypsies refer to as a kekkeno mushes puv, a no man’s land; a spot that either has no owner or where the owner, for some reason, isn’t using the land right now. The houses in the neighborhood are shabby and rundown, mainly occupied by low-income workers. This area serves as the main residence for the Metropolitan Gypsies for a good part of the year, as well as others whose lifestyles are somewhat similar. During summer and autumn, the little plain, as it is, is mostly deserted, except for the occasional sad tent or two that might pop up, belonging to p. 208a tinker family who have stopped there briefly on their way through the city; the Gypsies are away during summer, some at fairs and races, the men with their coconuts and the women busy with fortune-telling or at suburban amusements—the men with their donkeys for young city kids to ride on, while the women continue their usual practice of dukkering and hokkering. The other travelers, as they’re called, roam the countryside following their specific trades, and in the autumn, most of them head to Kent to earn money by picking hops. However, as soon as the rains, which signal winter, start, the area becomes populated, and about a week or two before Christmas, it’s nearly packed with tents and caravans of wanderers; it becomes a place worth exploring, despite the inconvenience of being ankle-deep in mud and the considerable risk of being bitten by the Gypsy and traveling dogs tied to the tents and caravans, whose bites can be venomous and sometimes lead to a serious condition for which no European knows a cure. What follows is an attempt to describe the peculiar people and things encountered here; the true Gypsies and what relates to them will, of course, be mentioned first.
On this plain there may be some fifteen or twenty Gypsy tents and caravans. Some of the tents are large, as indeed it is highly necessary that they should be, being inhabited by large families—a man and his wife, a grandmother a sister or two and half a dozen children, being, p. 209occasionally found in one; some of them are very small, belonging to poor old females who have lost their husbands, and whose families have separated themselves from them, and allow them to shift for themselves. During the day the men are generally busy at their several avocations, chinning the cost, that is, cutting the stick for skewers, making pegs for linen-lines, kipsimengring or basket-making, tinkering or braziering; the children are playing about, or begging halfpence by the road of passengers; whilst the women are strolling about, either in London or the neighbourhood, engaged in fortune-telling or swindling. Of the trades of the men, the one by far the most practised is chinning the cost, and as they sit at the door of the tents, cutting and whittling away, they occasionally sweeten their toil by raising their voices and singing the Gypsy stanza in which the art is mentioned, and which for terseness and expressiveness is quite equal to anything in the whole circle of Gentile poetry:
On this plain, there are about fifteen to twenty Gypsy tents and caravans. Some of the tents are large, which they need to be, as they house big families—a man, his wife, a grandmother, a sister or two, and often a few kids can be found living together in one. Others are quite small, belonging to elderly women who have lost their husbands and whose families have distanced themselves from them, leaving them to fend for themselves. During the day, the men are usually busy with various jobs, like cutting sticks for skewers, making pegs for laundry lines, weaving baskets, or doing repairs as tinkers or braziers; the children play around or ask passing travelers for change, while the women wander, either in London or the nearby areas, involved in fortune-telling or scamming. Among the men’s trades, the most common is cutting sticks, and as they sit at the door of their tents whittling away, they sometimes lift their voices to sing the Gypsy verse that mentions their craft, which is just as tight and expressive as anything in all of Gentile poetry: p. 209
Can you rokra Romany?
Can you play the bosh?
Can you jal adrey the staripen?
Can you chin the cost?
Can you roll the dice?
Can you play the game?
Can you look at the stars?
Can you count the money?
Can you speak the Roman tongue?
Can you play the fiddle?
Can you eat the prison-loaf?
Can you cut and whittle?
Can you speak Latin?
Can you play the violin?
Can you eat the prison bread?
Can you carve and shape?
These Gypsies are of various tribes, but chiefly Purruns, Chumomescroes and Vardomescroes, or Lees, Boswells and Coopers, and Lees being by p. 210far the most numerous. The men are well made, active fellows, somewhat below the middle height. Their complexions are dark, and their eyes are full of intelligence; their habiliments are rather ragged. The women are mostly wild-looking creatures, some poorly clad, others exhibiting not a little strange finery. There are some truly singular beings amongst those women, which is more than can be said with respect to the men, who are much on a level, and amongst whom there is none whom it is possible to bring prominently out, and about whom much can be said. The women, as has been already observed, are generally out during the day, being engaged in their avocations abroad. There is a very small tent about the middle of the place; it belongs to a lone female, whom one frequently meets wandering about Wandsworth or Battersea, seeking an opportunity to dukker some credulous servant-girl. It is hard that she should have to do so, as she is more than seventy-five years of age, but if she did not she would probably starve. She is very short of stature, being little more than five feet and an inch high, but she is wonderfully strongly built. Her head is very large, and seems to have been placed at once upon her shoulders without any interposition of neck. Her face is broad, with a good-humoured expression upon it, and in general with very little vivacity; at times, however, it lights up, and then all the Gypsy beams forth. Old as she is, her hair, which is very long, is as black as the plumage of a crow, and she walks sturdily, though with not much elasticity, on her short, thick legs, and, if p. 211requested, would take up the heaviest man in Wandsworth or Battersea and walk away with him. She is, upon the whole, the oddest Gypsy woman ever seen; see her once and you will never forget her. Who is she? you ask. Who is she? Why, Mrs. Cooper, the wife of Jack Cooper, the fighting Gypsy, once the terror of all the Light Weights of the English Ring; who knocked West Country Dick to pieces, and killed Paddy O’Leary, the fighting pot-boy, Jack Randall’s pet. Ah, it would have been well for Jack if he had always stuck to his true, lawful Romany wife, whom at one time he was very fond of, and whom he used to dress in silks and satins, and best scarlet cloth, purchased with the money gained in his fair, gallant battles in the Ring! But he did not stick to her, deserting her for a painted Jezebel, to support whom he sold his battles, by doing which he lost his friends and backers; then took from his poor wife all he had given her, and even plundered her of her own property, down to the very blankets which she lay upon; and who finally was so infatuated with love for his paramour that he bore the blame of a crime which she had committed, and in which he had no share, suffering ignominy and transportation in order to save her. Better had he never deserted his tatchie romadie, his own true Charlotte, who, when all deserted him, the painted Jezebel being the first to do so, stood by him, supporting him with money in prison, and feeing counsel on his trial from the scanty proceeds of her dukkering. All that happened many years ago; Jack’s term of transportation, a lengthy one, has long, long been expired, but he has not come p. 212back, though every year since the expiration of his servitude he has written her a letter, or caused one to be written to her, to say that he is coming, that he is coming; so that she is always expecting him, and is at all times willing, as she says, to re-invest him with all the privileges of a husband, and to beg and dukker to support him if necessary. A true wife she has been to him, a tatchie romadie, and has never taken up with any man since he left her, though many have been the tempting offers that she has had, connubial offers, notwithstanding the oddity of her appearance. Only one wish she has now in this world, the wish that he may return; but her wish, it is to be feared, is a vain one, for Jack lingers and lingers in the Sonnakye Tem, golden Australia, teaching, it is said, the young Australians to box, tempted by certain shining nuggets, the produce of the golden region. It is pleasant, though there is something mournful in it, to visit Mrs. Cooper after nightfall, to sit with her in her little tent after she has taken her cup of tea, and is warming her tired limbs at her little coke fire, and hear her talk of old times and things: how Jack courted her ’neath the trees of Loughton Forest, and how, when tired of courting, they would get up and box, and how he occasionally gave her a black eye, and how she invariably flung him at a close; and how they were lawfully married at church, and what a nice man the clergyman was, and what funny things he said both before and after he had united them; how stoutly West Country Dick contended against Jack, though always losing; how in Jack’s battle with Paddy p. 213O’Leary the Irishman’s head in the last round was truly frightful, not a feature being distinguishable, and one of his ears hanging down by a bit of skin; how Jack vanquished Hardy Scroggins, whom Jack Randall himself never dared fight. Then, again, her anecdotes of Alec Reed, cool, swift-hitting Alec, who was always smiling, and whose father was a Scotchman, his mother an Irishwoman, and who was born in Guernsey; and of Oliver, old Tom Oliver, who seconded Jack in all his winning battles, and after whom he named his son, his only child, Oliver, begotten of her in lawful wedlock, a good and affectionate son enough, but unable to assist her, on account of his numerous family. Farewell, Mrs. Cooper, true old Charlotte! here’s a little bit of silver for you, and a little bit of a gillie to sing:
These Gypsies come from various tribes, but mainly the Purruns, Chumomescroes, and Vardomescroes, or as others call them, Lees, Boswells, and Coopers, with the Lees being by far the most numerous. The men are well-built, active guys, a little shorter than average. They have dark complexions and intelligent eyes; their clothes are quite ragged. The women often look wild, with some dressed poorly while others wear some peculiar finery. There are definitely some unique characters among the women, which can’t be said as much for the men, who are pretty similar and none stand out too much. The women, as mentioned before, are usually out during the day tending to their business. In the center of the place, there’s a small tent that belongs to an elderly woman, often seen wandering around Wandsworth or Battersea, looking for a chance to trick some unsuspecting servant girl. It’s unfortunate that she has to do this at over seventy-five years old, but if she didn't, she would likely starve. Although she’s just over five feet tall, she’s remarkably strong. Her head is quite large, almost like it’s been set directly on her shoulders without a neck in between. Her face is broad, generally showing a good-natured but not very lively expression, though at times it brightens up and all of her Gypsy spirit shines through. Despite her age, her long hair is as black as a crow’s feathers, and she walks sturdily, if not very nimbly, on her short, thick legs. If asked, she could pick up the heaviest person in Wandsworth or Battersea and carry them away. Overall, she is the most unusual Gypsy woman anyone has ever seen; you see her once and won’t forget her. “Who is she?” you might ask. Well, she’s Mrs. Cooper, the wife of Jack Cooper, the fighter who once terrorized all the lightweights in the English boxing scene; the man who battered West Country Dick and killed Paddy O’Leary, the famous pot-boy and Jack Randall’s favorite. It would have been better for Jack if he had always stayed true to his legitimate Romany wife, whom at one time he really loved, dressing her up in silks, satins, and the finest scarlet cloth funded by his victorious boxing matches. But he didn’t stay with her, abandoning her for a flashy woman, for whom he threw away his fights, losing both friends and supporters in the process; he took back everything he had given her, even her blankets, and was so infatuated with his mistress that he took the blame for a crime she committed, suffering disgrace and exile to protect her. He should have never left his true Charlotte, who, when everyone else abandoned him—his painted mistress being the first—remained loyal, supporting him financially while he was in prison and hiring a lawyer for his trial with the little money she made from her tricks. All this happened many years ago; Jack’s sentence of exile, which was a long one, has long since ended, but he hasn’t returned, even though every year since the end of his exile, he’s sent her a letter saying he’s coming back. So, she’s always waiting for him, and is always willing, as she says, to give him back all the rights of a husband and to beg and trick to support him if needed. She has truly been a faithful wife to him, a tatchie romadie, and has never taken another man since he left, despite receiving many marriage proposals, even with her odd appearance. Now, her only wish in the world is for him to return; however, it’s feared that her wish may be in vain since Jack lingers on in sunny Australia, supposedly teaching young Australians to box, lured by some shiny gold nuggets from that region. It’s both pleasant and somewhat sad to visit Mrs. Cooper after dark, to sit with her in her little tent after she has her cup of tea, warming her tired limbs by her small fire, as she reminisces about the past, how Jack courted her beneath the trees of Loughton Forest, and how, when tired of courting, they would spar, with him sometimes giving her a black eye, and her always throwing him down when they got close. She recalls how they were legally married at church, how nice the clergyman was, and how funny he was both before and after the ceremony; how fiercely West Country Dick fought against Jack, though always losing; how, in Jack’s match against Paddy O’Leary, the Irishman’s head was a frightening sight by the last round, completely unrecognizable, with one ear hanging by a bit of skin; how Jack triumphed over Hardy Scroggins, whom Jack Randall himself never dared to challenge. Then she shares stories about Alec Reed, who was cool under pressure, quick with his fists, always smiling, born to a Scottish father and an Irish mother in Guernsey, and about Oliver, old Tom Oliver, who supported Jack in all his victorious matches and after whom he named his only son, Oliver, born to her in legal marriage. Oliver is a good and caring son, but can't help her much because of his large family. Farewell, Mrs. Cooper, true old Charlotte! Here’s a little bit of silver for you, and a little gillie to sing:
Charlotta is my nav,
I am a puro Purrun;
My romado was Jack,
The couring Vardomescro.
He muk’d me for a lubbeny,
Who chor’d a rawnie’s kissi;
He penn’d ’twas he who lell’d it,
And so was bitched pawdel.
Charlotta is my guide,
I am a true Purrun;
My lover was Jack,
The charming Vardomescro.
He mocked me for a sweetheart,
Who stole a stranger’s kiss;
He claimed it was he who revealed it,
And so was treated poorly.
Old Charlotte I am called,
Of Lee I am a daughter;
I married Fighting Jack,
The famous Gypsy Cooper.
He left me for a harlot,
Who pick’d a lady’s pocket;
He bore the blame to save her,
And so was sent to Bot’ny.
Old Charlotte is what they call me,
I'm the daughter of Lee;
I married Fighting Jack,
The famous Gypsy Cooper.
He left me for a prostitute,
Who stole from a lady's purse;
He took the blame to protect her,
And that's how he ended up in Botany.
p. 214Just within the bounds of the plain, and close by the road, may occasionally be seen a small caravan of rather a neat appearance. It comes and goes suddenly, and is seldom seen there for more than three days at a time. It belongs to a Gypsy female who, like Mrs. Cooper, is a remarkable person, but is widely different from Mrs. Cooper in many respects. Mrs. Cooper certainly does not represent the beau ideal of a Gypsy female, this does—a dark, mysterious, beautiful, terrible creature! She is considerably above the middle height, powerfully but gracefully made, and about thirty-seven years of age. Her face is oval, and of a dark olive. The nose is Grecian, the cheek-bones rather high; the eyes somewhat sunk, but of a lustrous black; the mouth small, and the teeth exactly like ivory. Upon the whole the face is exceedingly beautiful, but the expression is evil—evil to a degree. Who she is no one exactly knows, nor what is her name, nor whether she is single woman, wife, or widow. Some say she is a foreign Gypsy, others from Scotland, but she is neither—her accent is genuine English. What strikes one as most singular is the power she possesses of appearing in various characters—all Romany ones it is true, but so different as seemingly to require three distinct females of the race to represent them: sometimes she is the staid, quiet, respectable Gypsy; sometimes the forward and impudent; at others the awful and sublime. Occasionally you may see her walking the streets dressed in a black silk gown, with a black silk bonnet on her head; over her left arm is flung a small carpet, a sample of the p. 215merchandise which is in her caravan, which is close at hand, driven by a brown boy; her address to her customers is highly polite; the tones of her voice are musical, though somewhat deep. At Fairlop, on the first Friday of July, in the evening, she may be found near the Bald-faced Hind, dressed in a red cloak and a large beaver; her appearance is bold and reckless—she is dukkering low tradesmen and servant girls behind the trees at sixpence a head, or is bandying with the voice of a raven slang and obscenity with country boors, or with the blackguard butcher-boys who throng in from Whitechapel and Shoreditch to the Gypsy Fair. At Goodwood, a few weeks after, you may see her in a beautiful half-riding dress, her hair fantastically plaited and adorned with pearls, standing beside the carriage of a Countess, telling the fortune of her ladyship with the voice and look of a pythoness. She is a thing of incongruities; an incomprehensible being! nobody can make her out; the writer himself has tried to make her out but could not, though he has spoken to her in his deepest Romany. It is true there is a certain old Gypsy, a friend of his, who thinks he has made her out. “Brother,” said he one day, “why you should be always going after that woman I can’t conceive, unless indeed you have lost your wits. If you go after her for her Romany you will find yourself in the wrong box: she may have a crumb or two of Romany, but for every crumb that she has I am quite sure you have a quartern loaf. Then as for her beauty, of which it is true she has plenty, and for which half a dozen Gorgios that I knows of are running mad, it’s of p. 216no use going after her for that, for her beauty she keeps for her own use and that of her master the Devil; not but that she will sell it—she’s sold it a dozen times to my certain knowledge—but what’s the use of buying a thing, when the fool who buys it never gets it, never has the ‘joyment of it, brother? She is kek tatcho, and that’s what I like least in her; there’s no trusting her, neither Gorgio nor Romano can trust her: she sells her truppos to a Rye-gorgio for five bars, and when she has got them, and the Gorgio, as he has a right to do, begins to kelna lasa, she laughs and asks him if he knows whom he has to deal with; then if he lels bonnek of lati, as he is quite justified in doing, she whips out a churi, and swears if he doesn’t leave off she will stick it in his gorlo. Oh! she’s an evil mare, a wafodu grasni, though a handsome one, and I never looks at her, brother, without saying to myself the old words:
p. 214Just on the edge of the plain and near the road, you might occasionally spot a small, tidy caravan. It appears and disappears suddenly, rarely staying more than three days at a time. This caravan is owned by a Gypsy woman who, like Mrs. Cooper, is remarkable but differs from her in many ways. Mrs. Cooper definitely doesn’t embody the ideal of a Gypsy woman, but this woman does—a dark, mysterious, beautiful, and fierce creature! She is quite tall, powerfully yet gracefully built, and about thirty-seven years old. Her face is oval and a dark olive tone. Her nose is Grecian, her cheekbones are fairly high; her eyes are slightly sunk but strikingly black; her mouth is small, with teeth that resemble ivory. Overall, her face is incredibly beautiful, but the expression is sinister—truly evil. No one knows exactly who she is, what her name is, or whether she’s single, married, or widowed. Some say she's a foreign Gypsy, others from Scotland, but she’s neither—her accent is unmistakably English. What’s most peculiar is her ability to take on different characters—all Romany, true enough, but so distinct they seem to require three separate women of the race to portray them: sometimes she’s the serious, respectable Gypsy; other times the bold and cheeky; and at times, the terrifying and grand. You might see her walking down the street in a black silk gown and a black silk bonnet, with a small carpet draped over her left arm—a sample of the p. 215merchandise in her nearby caravan, which is driven by a brown boy. Her manner of addressing customers is very polite, and the tone of her voice is melodious yet somewhat deep. At Fairlop, on the first Friday of July in the evening, she can be found near the Bald-faced Hind, wearing a red cloak and a large beaver hat; she appears bold and reckless—she’s dukkering low tradesmen and servant girls behind the trees for sixpence a person, or tossing around slang and profanity with country bumpkins, or with the rowdy butcher-boys who come in from Whitechapel and Shoreditch for the Gypsy Fair. A few weeks later at Goodwood, you might see her in a stunning half-riding dress, her hair styled into fantastical braids adorned with pearls, standing next to a Countess’s carriage, using the voice and gaze of a fortune teller. She is an embodiment of contradictions; an unfathomable being! No one can understand her; even the writer has tried but failed, despite speaking to her in his deepest Romany. There is an old Gypsy friend of his who thinks he has figured her out. “Brother,” he said one day, “I can’t understand why you keep pursuing that woman, unless you’ve really lost your mind. If you're after her for her Romany, you’ve got it wrong: she might have a little Romany in her, but for every bit she has, I'm sure you have a full loaf. As for her beauty, which is undeniable and has driven half a dozen Gorgios I know mad, it’s pointless to chase her for that, because her beauty is kept for her own use and her master, the Devil; not that she won’t sell it—she’s sold it a dozen times that I know of—but what's the point in buying something when the fool who buys it never gets to enjoy it, brother? She is kek tatcho, and that’s what I dislike most about her; you can’t trust her—neither Gorgio nor Romano can. She sells her truppos to a Rye-gorgio for five bars, and when the Gorgio, as he rightfully should, starts kelna lasa, she laughs and asks if he knows who he’s dealing with; then if he lels bonnek of lati, as he’s entirely justified in doing, she pulls out a churi and swears that if he doesn’t stop, she’ll stick it in his gorlo. Oh! She’s an evil one, a wafodu grasni, though a beautiful one, and I can’t look at her, brother, without reminding myself of the old saying:
“Rinkeno mui and wafodu zee
Kitzi’s the cheeros we dicks cattanē.”
“Rinkeno mui and wafodu zee
Kitzi’s the cheeros we dicks cattanē.”
A beautiful face and a black wicked mind
Often, full often together we find.
A beautiful face and a dark, wicked mind
Often, all too often, we find them together.
Some more particular account than what has been already given of the habitations of these Wandsworth Gypsies, and likewise of their way of life, will perhaps not be unacceptable here.
Some more specific information than what has already been provided about the homes of these Wandsworth Gypsies, as well as their lifestyle, may be welcome here.
To begin with the tents. They are oblong in shape and of very simple construction, whether small or great. Sticks or rods, called in the Gypsy language ranior, between four and five feet in length, and croming or bending towards the top, are stuck in the ground at about twenty inches p. 217from each other, a rod or two being omitted in that part where the entrance is intended to be. The cromes or bends serve as supporters of a roof, and those of the side rods which stand over against one another are generally tied together by strings. These rods are covered over with coarse brown cloths, pinned or skewered together; those at the bottom being fastened to the ground by pegs. Around the tent is generally a slight embankment, about two or three inches high, or a little trench about the same depth, to prevent water from running into the tent in time of rain. Such is the tent, which would be exactly like the Indian wigwam but for the cloth which forms the covering: the Indians in lieu of cloth using bark, which they carry about with them in all their migrations, though they leave the sticks standing in the ground.
To start with the tents. They are rectangular and quite simply built, whether small or large. Sticks or rods, known in the Gypsy language as ranior, are about four to five feet long and curve or bend at the top. They are stuck in the ground around twenty inches p. 217 apart, with one or two rods left out where the entrance is supposed to be. The cromes or bends act as supports for the roof, and the side rods facing each other are usually tied together with strings. These rods are covered with rough brown cloths that are pinned or skewered together, with the bottom ends secured to the ground using pegs. There’s typically a small embankment, about two or three inches high, or a shallow trench of the same depth around the tent to stop water from flowing in during rain. This tent is quite similar to the Indian wigwam except for the cloth covering: the Indians use bark instead, which they carry with them during migrations while leaving the sticks standing in the ground.
The furniture is scanty. Like the Arabs, the Gypsies have neither chairs nor tables, but sit cross-legged, a posture which is perfectly easy to them, though insufferable to a Gorgio, unless he happens to be a tailor. When they eat, the ground serves them for a board, though they occasionally spread a cloth upon it. Singularly enough, though they have neither chairs nor tables, they have words for both. Of pots, pans, plates, and trenchers, they have a tolerable quantity. Each grown-up person has a churi, or knife, with which to cut food. Eating-forks they have none, and for an eating-fork they have no word, the term pasengri signifying a straw- or pitch-fork. Spoons are used by them generally of horn, and are called royis. They have but two culinary articles, the kekkauvi and pirry, kettle and boiler, which are generally of copper, p. 218to which, however, may perhaps be added the kekkauviskey saster, or kettle-iron, by which the kettle and boiler are hung over the fire. As a fireplace they have a large iron pan on three legs, with holes or eyes in the sides, in order that the heat of the fire may be cast around. Instead of coals they use coke, which emits no flame and little smoke, and casts a considerable heat. Every tent has a pail or two, and perhaps a small cask or barrel, the proper name for which is bedra, though it is generally called pāni-mengri, or thing for water. At the farther end of the tent is a mattress, with a green cloth, or perhaps a sheet spread upon it, forming a kind of couch, on which visitors are generally asked to sit down:—Av adrey, Romany Rye, av adrey ta besh aley pawdle odoy! Come in, Gypsy gentleman (said a polite Gypsy one day to the writer); come in and sit down over yonder! They have a box or two in which they stow away their breakable articles and whatever things they set any particular value upon. Some of them have small feather-beds, and they are generally tolerably well provided with blankets.
The furniture is minimal. Like the Arabs, the Gypsies don’t have chairs or tables, but sit cross-legged, which is really comfortable for them, though unbearable for a non-Gypsy unless he’s a tailor. When they eat, they use the ground as a table, although they sometimes lay down a cloth on it. Interestingly, even though they lack chairs and tables, they have words for both. They have a decent amount of pots, pans, plates, and dishes. Each adult has a churi, or knife, to cut their food. They don’t have eating forks, and there’s no word for an eating fork; the term pasengri refers to a straw or pitchfork. Spoons are usually made of horn and called royis. They only have two cooking items, the kekkauvi and pirry, which are a kettle and a boiler, typically made of copper, p. 218 although you might also consider the kekkauviskey saster, or kettle iron, for hanging the kettle and boiler over the fire. They use a large iron pan on three legs as a fireplace, with holes on the sides to let the heat spread. Instead of coal, they use coke, which produces no flame and little smoke but generates a lot of heat. Each tent has one or two buckets and maybe a small cask or barrel, which is properly called bedra, although it’s usually referred to as pāni-mengri, or water container. At the back of the tent is a mattress with a green cloth or a sheet on it, serving as a sort of couch for visitors to sit on: — Av adrey, Romany Rye, av adrey ta besh aley pawdle odoy! Come in, Gypsy gentleman (a polite Gypsy once said to the writer); come in and sit down over there! They have a box or two where they keep their fragile items and anything they particularly value. Some of them even have small feather beds, and they generally have enough blankets.
The caravans are not numerous, and have only been used of late years by any of the English Gypsy race. The caravan called by the Gypsies keir vardo, or waggon-house, is on four wheels, and is drawn by a horse or perhaps a couple of donkeys. It is about twelve feet long by six broad and six high. At the farther end are a couple of transverse berths, one above the other, like those in the cabin of a ship; and a little way from these is a curtain hanging by rings from an iron rod running across, which, when drawn, forms a partition. On either p. 219side is a small glazed window. The most remarkable object is a stove just inside the door, on the left hand, with a metal chimney which goes through the roof. This stove, the Gypsy term for which is bo, casts, when lighted, a great heat, and in some cases is made in a very handsome fashion. Some caravans have mirrors against the sides, and exhibit other indications of an aiming at luxury, though in general they are dirty, squalid places, quite as much as or perhaps more than the tents, which seem to be the proper and congenial homes of the Gypsies.
The caravans aren’t very common and have only been used recently by the English Gypsy community. The caravan known as keir vardo, or waggon-house, has four wheels and is pulled by a horse or maybe a couple of donkeys. It's about twelve feet long, six feet wide, and six feet high. At the far end, there are two beds stacked on top of each other, similar to those found in a ship’s cabin; not far from these is a curtain that hangs on rings from an iron rod across the top, which, when drawn, creates a partition. On each p. 219side, there’s a small glazed window. The most notable feature is a stove just inside the door on the left, with a metal chimney that extends through the roof. This stove, which the Gypsies call bo, produces a lot of heat when lit, and in some cases, it’s made quite beautifully. Some caravans have mirrors on the sides and show signs of trying for luxury, although generally, they’re dirty and squalid, just as much, if not more than the tents, which seem to be the true and comfortable homes of the Gypsies.
The mode of life of these people may be briefly described. They have two regular meals—breakfast and supper. The breakfast consists of tea, generally of the best quality, bread, butter, and cheese; the supper, of tea and a stew. In spring time they occasionally make a kind of tea or soup of the tender leaves of a certain description of nettle. This preparation, which they call dandrimengreskie zimmen, or the broth of the stinging-thing, is highly relished by them. They get up early, and go to bed betimes. After breakfast the men sit down to chin the cost, to mend chairs or make baskets; the women go forth to hok and dukker, and the children to beg, or to go with the donkeys to lanes and commons to watch them, whilst they try to fill their poor bellies with grass and thistles. These children sometimes bring home hotchiwitches, or hedgehogs, the flesh of which is very sweet and tender, and which their mothers are adepts at cooking.
The lifestyle of these people can be summarized briefly. They have two regular meals—breakfast and supper. Breakfast includes tea, usually of the best quality, along with bread, butter, and cheese; supper consists of tea and a stew. In spring, they sometimes make a kind of tea or soup from the tender leaves of a specific type of nettle. This dish, which they call dandrimengreskie zimmen, or broth of the stinging thing, is very popular among them. They wake up early and go to bed early. After breakfast, the men sit down to chin the cost, to repair chairs or make baskets; the women go out to hok and dukker, while the children either beg or take donkeys to the lanes and common areas to watch them eat grass and thistles. Occasionally, these children bring home hotchiwitches, or hedgehogs, which have very sweet and tender meat, and their mothers are skilled at cooking.
The Gypsies, as has been already observed, are not the sole occupiers of Wandsworth grounds. p. 220Strange, wild guests are to be found there, who, without being Gypsies, have much of Gypsyism in their habits, and who far exceed the Gypsies in number. To pass them by without notice would be unpardonable. They may be divided into three classes: Chorodies, Kora-mengre, and Hindity-mengre. Something about each:—
The Gypsies, as already noted, aren't the only ones living on the Wandsworth grounds. p. 220 There are strange, wild guests here who, while not Gypsies, share many Gypsy-like habits and outnumber the Gypsies significantly. Ignoring them would be inexcusable. They can be categorized into three groups: Chorodies, Kora-mengre, and Hindity-mengre. Here’s a bit about each:—
The Chorodies are the legitimate descendants of the rogues and outcasts who roamed about England long before its soil was trodden by a Gypsy foot. They are a truly detestable set of beings; both men and women being ferocious in their appearance, and in their conversation horrible and disgusting. They have coarse, vulgar features, and hair which puts one wonderfully in mind of refuse flax, or the material of which mops are composed. Their complexions, when not obscured with grime, are rather fair than dark, evidencing that their origin is low, swinish Saxon, and not gentle Romany. Their language is the frowsiest English, interlarded with cant expressions and a few words of bastard Romany. They live in the vilest tents, with the exception of two or three families, who have their abode in broken and filthy caravans. They have none of the comforts and elegancies of the Gypsies. They are utterly destitute of civility and good manners, and are generally squalid in their dress, though the women sometimes exhibit not a little dirty tawdriness. The trades of the men are tinkering and basket-making, and some few “peel the stick.” The women go about with the articles made by their husbands, or rather partners, and sometimes do a little in the fortune-telling line—pretty prophetesses! The fellows p. 221will occasionally knock a man down in the dark, and rob him; the women will steal anything they can conveniently lay their hands on. Singular as it may seem to those not deeply acquainted with human nature, these wretches are not without a kind of pride. “We are no Gypsies—not we! no, nor Irish either. We are English, and decent folks—none of your rubbish!” The Gypsies hold them, and with reason, in supreme contempt, and it is from them that they got their name of Chorodies, not a little applicable to them. Choredo, in Gypsy, signifies a poor, miserable person, and differs very little in sound from two words, one Sanscrit and the other Hebrew, both signifying, like the Gypsy term, something low, mean, and contemptible.
The Chorodies are the true descendants of the outlaws and outcasts who wandered through England long before Gypsies set foot on its land. They are truly a loathsome group; both men and women look fierce and their conversations are disgusting. They have coarse, unattractive features and hair that reminds one of dirty flax or the material used for mops. Their complexions, when not covered in grime, are more pale than dark, showing that their lineage is lowly, unpleasant Saxon, not refined Romany. Their language is the dirtiest form of English, sprinkled with slang and a few words of corrupted Romany. They live in the filthiest tents, except for a couple of families living in broken, dirty caravans. They lack the comforts and elegance of the Gypsies. They are completely lacking in civility and good manners, and generally wear shabby clothes, though the women sometimes show a bit of dirty flashiness. The men work as tinkers or basket makers, and a few “peel the stick.” The women sell the items made by their husbands, or rather partners, and sometimes dabble in fortune-telling—pretty fortune-tellers! The guys will occasionally knock someone out in the dark and rob them; the women will steal whatever they can easily grab. Strange as it may seem to those not familiar with human nature, these miserable people have a kind of pride. “We’re not Gypsies—no way! Nor Irish either. We are English and decent folks—none of your rubbish!” The Gypsies look down on them with good reason, and it's from them that they got the name Chorodies, which fits them well. Choredo, in Gypsy, means a poor, wretched person, and it sounds quite similar to two words, one in Sanskrit and the other in Hebrew, both meaning something lowly, mean, and contemptible.
Kora-mengre are the lowest of those hawkers who go about the country villages and the streets of London, with caravans hung about with various common articles, such as mats, brooms, mops, tin pans and kettles. These low hawkers seem to be of much the same origin as the Chorodies, and are almost equally brutal and repulsive in their manners. The name Kora-mengre is Gypsy, and signifies fellows who cry out and shout, from their practice of shouting out the names of their goods. The word kora, or karra, is by no means bad Hebrew: kora, in the Holy Language, signifies he cried out, called, or proclaimed: and a partridge is called in Hebrew kora, from its continually crying out to its young, when leading them about to feed. Koran, the name of the sacred book of the Mahomedans, is of the same root.
Kora-mengre are the lowest of the hawkers who roam the country villages and the streets of London with caravans full of various everyday items like mats, brooms, mops, tin pans, and kettles. These lowly hawkers seem to share a similar background with the Chorodies and are almost equally rough and unpleasant in their behavior. The name Kora-mengre is Gypsy and means guys who shout out, referring to their practice of calling out the names of their wares. The word kora, or karra, is not bad Hebrew: kora in Hebrew means he cried out, called, or proclaimed, and a partridge is referred to as kora in Hebrew because it constantly calls out to its young while leading them to food. Koran, the name of the sacred book of Muslims, comes from the same root.
Lastly come the Hindity-mengre, or Filthy p. 222People. This term has been bestowed upon the vagrant Irish by the Gypsies, from the dirty ways attributed to them, though it is a question whether the lowest Irish are a bit more dirty in their ways than the English Chorodies, or indeed so much, and are certainly immeasurably superior to them in many respects. There are not many of them here, seldom more than two families, and sometimes, even during the winter, not a single Irish tent or cart is to be seen. The trade they ostensibly drive is tinkering, repairing old kettles, and making little pots and pans of tin. The one, however, on which they principally depend, is not tinkering, but one far more lucrative, and requiring more cleverness and dexterity; they make false rings, like the Gypsy smiths, the fashiono vangustengre of old, and whilst speaking Celtic to one whom they deem their countryman, have no hesitation in acknowledging themselves to be “Cairdean droich oir,” workers of false gold. The rings are principally made out of old brass buttons; those worn by old Chelsea pensioners being considered the very best for the purpose. Many an ancient Corporal Trim, alter having spent all his money at the public-house, and only become three-parts boozy, has been induced by the Hindity-mengro to sell all his buttons at the rate of three-halfpence a-piece, in order to have wherewithal to make himself thoroughly royal. Each of these Hindity-mengre has his blow-pipe, and some of them can execute their work in a style little inferior to that of a first-rate working goldsmith. The rings, after being made, are rubbed with a certain stuff out of a phial, which gives them all the appearance of p. 223gold. This appearance, however, does not long endure, for after having been worn two or three months, the ring loses its false appearance entirely, and any one can see that it is worthless metal. A good many of these rings are disposed of at good prices by the Hindity women, the wives of these false-gold workers, to servant girls and the wives of small shopkeepers, and not a few, at a lower rate, to certain gentry who get their livelihood by the honourable profession of ring-dropping.
Lastly, we have the Hindity-mengre, or Filthy p. 222People. This term is used by the Gypsies to describe the wandering Irish, based on the dirty behaviors associated with them. However, it's debatable whether the poorest Irish are actually more unsanitary than the English Chorodies, or even if they are at all, and they are certainly much better than them in many ways. There aren't many of them here, usually no more than two families, and sometimes even in winter, not a single Irish tent or cart is visible. The work they supposedly do is tinkering—repairing old kettles and making small tin pots and pans. However, the main way they earn a living isn’t tinkering; it's something much more profitable that requires more skill and dexterity. They create fake rings, like the Gypsy smiths, the fashiono vangustengre of old, and while speaking Celtic to someone they consider a fellow countryman, they have no problem admitting to being “Cairdean droich oir,” or workers of false gold. The rings are mostly made from old brass buttons, especially those worn by elderly Chelsea pensioners, which are seen as the best for this purpose. Many an old Corporal Trim, after spending all his money at the pub and while still tipsy, has been convinced by the Hindity-mengro to sell all his buttons for three-halfpence each, just to afford making himself look grand. Each of these Hindity-mengre has a blow-pipe, and some can create their work in a style not much different from that of a skilled goldsmith. After they’re made, the rings are polished with a certain substance from a vial, making them look like p. 223gold. However, this appearance doesn’t last long; after being worn for a couple of months, the ring completely loses its fake look, and anyone can tell it's worthless metal. Many of these rings are sold at decent prices by the Hindity women, the wives of these false-gold makers, to servant girls and the wives of small shopkeepers, and quite a few, for a lower price, to certain people who make a living through the honorable profession of ring-dropping.
What is ring-dropping?
What is ring dropping?
Ring-dropping is this. A gentleman overtakes you as you are walking in some quiet street, passes by you, and at the distance of some fifteen yards stops, and stooping down, seemingly picks up something, which he inspects, and then uttering a “Dear me!” he turns to you, and says, “Sir, we have been fortunate to-day. See! I have picked up this valuable!” He then shows you a small case, in which is a large ring, seemingly of the finest gold, with a little label attached to it, on which is marked £2 15s. “Now, sir,” he continues, “I said we were fortunate, because as we were close to each other, I consider you as much entitled to gain by this windfall as myself. I’ll tell you how it shall be: the price of the ring, which was probably dropped by some goldsmith’s man, is, as you see, two pound fifteen; however, as I am in a hurry, you shall only give me a quid, a pound, and then the valuable shall be all your own; it shall indeed, sir!” And then he stares you in the face. Such is ring-dropping, to which many silly but greedy individuals, fall victims; giving a pound for a fine-looking ring, which, however, with its p. 224scarlet case—for the case is always of a scarlet colour—is not worth sixpence. The best thing you can do in such a case is to put your thumb to your nose, flattening your hand and sticking out your fingers far apart, moving on at the same time, or to utter the cabalistic word “hookey”; in either case the ring-dropper will at once drop astern, with a half-stifled curse, for he knows that he has to do with “no flat,” and that you are “awake to his little game.” Doing so is much better than moving rapidly on, and affecting to take no notice of him, for then he will infallibly follow you to the end of the street, offering you the ring on more reasonable terms at every step, perhaps concluding at last, as a ring-dropper once did to the writer, “I’ll tell you what, sir; as I am in a hurry, and rather hard up, you shall have the valuable for a bull, for a crown; you shall indeed, sir, so help me—”
Ring-dropping works like this: a guy catches up with you as you're walking down a quiet street, passes you by, and then about fifteen yards ahead stops, bends down, and pretends to pick something up. He inspects it and then, with a surprised expression, turns to you and says, “Hey there! We’ve hit the jackpot today. Look! I found this valuable item!” He then shows you a small case that contains a big ring, which looks like it’s made of the finest gold, with a little tag on it saying £2 15s. “Now, sir,” he goes on, “I said *we* were lucky because since we’re close together, I think you deserve to benefit from this lucky find just as much as I do. Here’s what we’ll do: the ring, which was probably dropped by some goldsmith’s assistant, is priced at two pounds fifteen, but since I’m in a hurry, you can just give me a quid, one pound, and this valuable piece will be all yours; it really will, sir!” And then he stares you down. That’s ring-dropping, and many naive but greedy people fall for it, paying a pound for a nice-looking ring that, with its p. 224scarlet case—because it’s always in a bright red case—is actually worth less than sixpence. The best thing you can do in such a situation is to put your thumb to your nose, flatten your hand, spread your fingers wide, and keep walking, or just say the word “hookey”; either way, the ring-dropper will quickly back off with a half-stifled curse, realizing he’s not dealing with a “sucker” and that you see through his little scheme. Doing that is much better than rushing away and pretending not to notice him; if you do that, he’ll inevitably follow you all the way down the street, trying to offer you the ring at a better price with every step. He might even end up saying, like a ring-dropper once did to me, “I’ll tell you what, sir; since I’m in a rush and a bit short on cash, you can have this valuable for a bull, for a crown; you can, really, sir, I swear—”
Three of the most famous of the Hindity smiths have been immortalised by the Gypsies in the following bit of verse:
Three of the most famous Hindity blacksmiths have been immortalized by the Gypsies in this verse:
Mickie, Huwie and Larry,
Trin Hindity-mengre fashiono vangust-engre.
Mickie, Huwie and Larry,
Trin Hindity-mengre fashiono vangust-engre.
Mickie, Huwie and Larry bold,
Three Irish brothers, as I am told,
Who make false rings, that pass for gold.
Mickie, Huwie, and Larry, bold,
Three Irish brothers, or so I'm told,
Who make fake rings that look like gold.
Of these fashiono-vangust brothers, the most remarkable is Mike—Old Mike, as he is generally called. He was born in the county Kerry, and educated at a hedge-school, where he learned to read and write English, after a fashion, and acquired the seventeen letters of the Irish alphabet, each of which is named after a particular tree. Leaving p. 225school he was apprenticed to a blacksmith, from whom he ran away, and enlisted into the service of that illustrious monarch, George the Third, some of whose battles he had the honour of fighting in the Peninsula and France. Discharged from the army at the Peace, with the noble donation of thirty shillings, or one month’s pay, he returned to Ireland, took to himself a wife, and commenced tinker. Becoming dissatisfied with his native soil he passed over to England, and settling for some time at “Brummagem,” took lessons from certain cunning smiths in the art of making fashiono vangusties. The next forty years of his life he spent in wandering about Britain, attended by his faithful partner, who not only disposed of his tin articles and false rings, but also bore him seventeen children, all of whom are alive, somewhere or other, and thriving too, one of them indeed having attained to the dignity of American senator. Some of his adventures, during his wanderings, were in the highest degree extraordinary. Of late years he has chiefly resided in the vicinity of London, spending his winters at Wandsworth, and his summers on the Flats, near Epping Forest; in one or the other of which places you may see Old Mike on a Sunday evening, provided the weather is tolerably fine, seated near his little caravan, with his wife by his side—not the wife who bore him the seventeen children, who has been dead for some years, but his second wife, a nice, elderly Irish ban from the county of Cork, who can tell fortunes, say her prayers in Irish, and is nearly as good a hand at selling her lord and master’s tin articles and false rings as her predecessor. Lucky for p. 226Mike that he got such a second partner! and luckier still that at his age of seventy-nine he retains all his faculties, and is able to work for his daily bread, with at least the skill and cunning of his two brothers, both of whom are much younger men than himself, whose adventures have been somewhat similar to his own, and who, singularly enough, have come to live near him in his latter days. Both these brothers are highly remarkable men. Huwie is the most civil-spoken person in or about London, and Larry a man of the most terrible tongue, and perhaps the most desperate fighter ever seen; always willing to attack half a dozen men, if necessary, and afraid of no one in the world, save one—Mike, old Mike, who can tame him in his fiercest moods by merely holding up his finger. Oh, a truly remarkable man is old Mike! and a pleasure and an advantage it is to any one of a philosophical mind to be acquainted with him, and to listen to him. He is much more than a fashiono-vangust-engro. Amongst other things he is a theologian—Irish theologian—and quite competent to fill the chair of theology at the University of Maynooth. He can tell you a great many things connected with a certain person, which, with all your research, you would never find in Scripture. He can tell you how the Saviour, when hanging on the cross, became athirst, and told St. Peter, who stood at the foot of it, to fetch Him a cup of water from a dirty puddle in the neighbourhood, and how St. Peter—however, better not relate the legend, though a highly curious one. Then he can repeat to you blessed verses, as he calls them, by dozens; not of David, but p. 227of one quite as good, as he will tell you, namely, Timothy O’Sullivan; and who, you will say, was Timothy O’Sullivan? Why, Ty Gaelach, to be sure. And who was Ty Gaelach? An Irish peasant-poet of the last century, who wrote spiritual songs, some of them by no means bad ones, and who was called Gaelach, or Gael, from his abhorrence of the English race and of the English language, of which he scarcely understood a word. Then is Ty Irish for Timothy? Why, no! though very stupidly supposed to be so. Ty is Teague, which is neither Greek nor Irish, but a glorious old Northern name, carried into Ireland by the brave old heathen Danes. Ty or Teague is the same as Tycho. Ty or Teague Gaelach is as much as to say Tycho Gaelach; and Tycho Brahe is as much as to say Teague Brahe.
Of these fashiono-vangust brothers, the most remarkable is Mike—Old Mike, as he's usually called. He was born in County Kerry and educated at a hedge-school, where he learned to read and write English, sort of, and picked up the seventeen letters of the Irish alphabet, each named after a specific tree. After leaving school, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith, from whom he ran away, and enlisted in the service of the illustrious monarch, George the Third, fighting in some of his battles in the Peninsula and France. Discharged from the army at peace with the generous gift of thirty shillings, or one month’s pay, he returned to Ireland, took a wife, and started tinkering. Dissatisfied with his home soil, he moved to England and settled for a while in “Brummagem,” where he learned from skilled smiths how to make fashiono vangusties. The next forty years of his life were spent wandering around Britain, accompanied by his loyal partner, who not only sold his tin items and fake rings but also bore him seventeen children, all of whom are alive and thriving, with one even becoming an American senator. Some of his adventures during these travels were truly extraordinary. In recent years, he has mainly lived near London, spending winters in Wandsworth and summers on the Flats, near Epping Forest; in either place, you might see Old Mike on a Sunday evening, provided the weather’s decent, sitting by his little caravan with his wife by his side—not the wife who had his seventeen children, who has been gone for several years, but his second wife, a lovely elderly Irish ban from County Cork, who can tell fortunes, say her prayers in Irish, and is almost as good at selling her husband's tin items and fake rings as his first wife was. Lucky for p. 226Mike that he found such a second partner! Even luckier that at the age of seventy-nine, he still has all his faculties and can work for his daily bread with at least as much skill and cunning as his two brothers, who are much younger than him, whose adventures have been somewhat similar, and who, coincidentally, have come to live near him in his later years. Both of these brothers are remarkable men. Huwie is the politest person in or around London, and Larry, a fierce talker, is perhaps the most ruthless fighter ever seen; he’s always willing to take on half a dozen men if needed and fears no one in the world—except Mike, Old Mike, who can calm him in his fiercest moments just by raising a finger. Oh, Old Mike is truly a remarkable man! It’s a pleasure and a benefit for anyone with a philosophical mind to know him and listen to him. He is much more than a fashiono-vangust-engro. Among other things, he’s a theologian—an Irish theologian—and fully qualified to hold the chair of theology at the University of Maynooth. He can share many details about a certain person that you wouldn’t discover in Scripture, even with all your research. He can tell you how the Savior, while hanging on the cross, became thirsty and asked St. Peter, who stood at the foot, to get Him a cup of water from a nearby dirty puddle, and how St. Peter—however, I won’t go into that legend, although it’s quite fascinating. He can recite to you blessed verses, as he calls them, by the dozens—not those of David, but p. 227of someone just as good, as he’ll tell you, named Timothy O’Sullivan; and who, you might ask, was Timothy O’Sullivan? Well, Ty Gaelach, of course. And who was Ty Gaelach? An Irish peasant-poet from the last century who wrote spiritual songs, some not too shabby, and was called Gaelach, or Gael, for his disdain of the English race and language, of which he barely understood a word. So is Ty Irish for Timothy? No! although that’s a common misconception. Ty is Teague, which is neither Greek nor Irish but a grand old Northern name brought to Ireland by the brave old heathen Danes. Ty or Teague is the same as Tycho. Ty or Teague Gaelach means the same as Tycho Gaelach; and Tycho Brahe is essentially the same as Teague Brahe.
p. 228THE POTTERIES, 1864
The second great Gypsyry is on the Middlesex side of the river, and is distant about three miles, as the crow flies, from that of Wandsworth. Strange as it may seem, it is not far distant from the most fashionable part of London; from the beautiful squares, noble streets, and thousand palaces of Tyburnia, a region which, though only a small part of the enormous metropolis, can show more beautiful edifices, wealth, elegance, and luxury, than all foreign capitals put together. After passing Tyburnia, and going more than halfway down Notting Hill, you turn to the right, and proceed along a tolerably genteel street till it divides into two, one of which looks more like a lane than a street, and which is on the left hand, and bears the name of Pottery Lane. Go along this lane, and you will presently find yourself amongst a number of low, uncouth-looking sheds, open at the sides, and containing an immense quantity of earthen chimney-pots, pantiles, fancy-bricks, and similar articles. This place is called the Potteries, and gives the name of Pottery Lane to the lane through which you have just passed. A dirty little road goes through it, which you must follow, and presently turning to your left, you will enter a little, filthy street, and going some way down it, you will see, on your right hand, a little, open bit of ground, chock-full of crazy, battered caravans of all colours—some p. 229yellow, some green, some red. Dark men, wild-looking, witch-like women, and yellow-faced children are at the doors of the caravans, or wending their way through the narrow spaces left for transit between the vehicles. You have now arrived at the second grand Gypsyry of London—you are amongst the Romany Chals of the Potteries, called in Gypsy the Koromengreskoe Tan, or the place of the fellows who make pots; in which place certain Gypsies have settled, not with the view of making pots, an employment which they utterly eschew, but simply because it is convenient to them, and suits their fancy.
The second major Gypsy camp is on the Middlesex side of the river, about three miles away from Wandsworth as the crow flies. Oddly enough, it's not far from the poshest parts of London; from the beautiful squares, grand streets, and countless mansions of Tyburnia, an area that, although just a tiny slice of the vast city, can showcase more stunning buildings, wealth, elegance, and luxury than all foreign capitals combined. After passing through Tyburnia and going more than halfway down Notting Hill, you take a right and continue along a fairly nice street until it splits into two. One path looks more like a lane, and it's on your left; it's called Pottery Lane. Continue down this lane, and soon you'll find yourself surrounded by a bunch of low, awkward-looking sheds, open on the sides, filled with a huge amount of clay chimney pots, roof tiles, decorative bricks, and similar items. This place is known as the Potteries, which gives Pottery Lane its name. There's a dirty little road running through it that you need to follow, and after turning left, you'll enter a small, filthy street. If you go a bit further down, you'll see on your right a small, open patch of land packed with rickety, battered caravans of all colors—some yellow, some green, some red. Dark-skinned men, wild-looking, witch-like women, and pale-faced children are at the doors of the caravans or making their way through the narrow gaps between the vehicles. You've now reached the second major Gypsy camp in London—you are among the Romany Chals of the Potteries, referred to in Gypsy as the Koromengreskoe Tan, or the place of the people who make pots; in this area, some Gypsies have set up camp, not to make pots, a job they completely avoid, but simply because it’s convenient for them and suits their lifestyle.
A goodly collection of Gypsies you will find in that little nook, crowded with caravans. Most of them are Tatchey Romany, real Gypsies, “long-established people, of the old order.” Amongst them are Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, Herons, or duck-people; Chumo-mescroes or Bosvils; a Kaulo Camlo (a Black Lovel) or two, and a Beshaley or Stanley. It is no easy thing to find a Stanley nowadays, even in the Baulo Tem, or Hampshire, which is the proper home of the Stanleys, for the Bugnior, pimples or small-pox, has of late years made sad havoc amongst the Stanleys; but yonder tall old gentlewoman, descending the steps of a caravan, with a flaming red cloak and a large black beaver bonnet, and holding a travelling basket in her hand, is a Tatchey Beshaley, a “genuine” Stanley. The generality, however, of “them Gyptians” are Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, or duck-people; and, speaking of the Hearnes, it is but right to say that he who may be called the p. 230Gypsy Father of London, old Thomas Ratzie-mescro, or Hearne, though not exactly residing here, lives close by in a caravan, in a little bit of a yard over the way, where he can breathe more freely, and be less annoyed by the brats and the young fellows than he would be in yonder crowded place.
You’ll find a nice group of Gypsies in that little corner, filled with caravans. Most of them are Tatchey Romany, true Gypsies, “long-established folks, from the old days.” Among them are Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, Herons, or duck-people; Chumo-mescroes or Bosvils; a Kaulo Camlo (a Black Lovel) or two, and a Beshaley or Stanley. It’s not easy to find a Stanley these days, even in the Baulo Tem or Hampshire, which is the true home of the Stanleys, because the Bugnior, pimples or smallpox, has recently caused a lot of trouble among the Stanleys; but over there, a tall old lady coming down the steps of a caravan, wearing a bright red cloak and a large black beaver bonnet, and carrying a traveling basket in her hand, is a Tatchey Beshaley, a “genuine” Stanley. Most of “them Gyptians,” however, are Ratzie-mescroes, Hearnes, or duck-people; and speaking of the Hearnes, it’s only right to mention that the p. 230Gypsy Father of London, old Thomas Ratzie-mescro, or Hearne, though not actually living here, stays nearby in a caravan, in a little yard across the way, where he can breathe more easily and be less bothered by the kids and the young men than he would be in that crowded spot.
Though the spot which it has just been attempted to describe, may be considered as the head-quarters of the London Gypsies, on the Middlesex side of the Thames, the whole neighbourhood, for a mile to the north of it, may to a certain extent be considered a Gypsy region—that is, a district where Gypsies, or gentry whose habits very much resemble those of Gypsies, may at any time be found. No metropolitan district, indeed, could be well more suited for Gypsies to take up their abode in. It is a neighbourhood of transition; of brickfields, open spaces, poor streets inhabited by low artisans, isolated houses, sites of intended tenements, or sites of tenements which have been pulled down; it is in fact a mere chaos, where there is no order and no regularity; where there is nothing durable, or intended to be durable; though there can be little doubt that within a few years order and beauty itself will be found here, that the misery, squalidness, and meanness will have disappeared, and the whole district, up to the railroad arches which bound it on the west and north, will be covered with palaces, like those of Tyburnia, or delightful villas, like those which decorate what is called Saint John’s Wood. At present, however, it is quite the kind of place to please the Gypsies and wandering people, who find p. 231many places within its bounds where they can squat and settle, or take up their quarters for a night or two without much risk of being interfered with. Here their tents, cars, and caravans may be seen amidst ruins, half-raised walls, and on patches of unenclosed ground; here their children may, throughout the day, be seen playing about, flinging up dust and dirt, some partly naked, and others entirely so; and here, at night, the different families, men, women, and children, may be seen seated around their fires and their kettles, taking their evening meal, and every now and then indulging in shouts of merriment, as much as to say,—
Though the area just described can be seen as the main hub for the London Gypsies, on the Middlesex side of the Thames, the whole neighborhood for a mile north can also be considered a Gypsy region. This is a district where Gypsies or people with similar lifestyles can be found at any time. In fact, no metropolitan area could be better suited for Gypsies to settle down in. It’s a neighborhood in transition—filled with brickfields, open spaces, run-down streets home to low-income workers, isolated houses, sites of planned housing developments, or places where buildings have been torn down. It’s essentially a chaos, lacking order and regularity; nothing here is permanent or meant to last. However, there’s little doubt that in a few years this area will transform into one of order and beauty, with the misery, squalor, and poverty disappearing, replaced by grand homes like those in Tyburnia, or charming villas similar to those in what’s known as Saint John’s Wood. For now, though, it’s exactly the kind of place that attracts Gypsies and wandering people who find plenty of spots where they can set up camp for a night or two without much chance of being bothered. Here, you can see their tents, carts, and caravans amidst ruins, half-built walls, and on patches of open land. Their children can be seen playing throughout the day, kicking up dust and dirt, some partly dressed and others completely naked; and at night, you can spot families—men, women, and kids—gathered around their fires and kettles, enjoying their evening meals, and every now and then bursting into joyful shouts, as if to say,—
What care we, though we be so small?
The tent shall stand when the palace shall fall;Why should we care, even if we're tiny?
The tent will still be up when the palace collapses;
which is quite true. The Gypsy tent must make way for the palace, but after a millennium or two, the Gypsy tent is pitched on the ruins of the palace.
which is quite true. The Gypsy tent must make way for the palace, but after a thousand years or so, the Gypsy tent is set up on the ruins of the palace.
Of the open spaces above mentioned, the most considerable is one called Latimer’s Green. It lies on the north-western side of the district, and is not far from that place of old renown called the Shepherd’s Bush, where in the good ancient times highwaymen used to lurk for the purpose of pouncing upon the travellers of the Oxford Road. It may contain about five or six acres, and, though nominally under the control of trustees, is in reality little more than a “no man’s ground,” where anybody may feed a horse, light a fire, and boil a kettle. It is a great resort of vagrant people, less of Gypsies than those who call themselves travellers, p. 232and are denominated by the Gypsies Chorodies, and who live for the most part in miserable caravans, though there is generally a Gypsy tent or two to be seen there, belonging to some Deighton or Shaw, or perhaps Petulengro, from the Lil-engro Tan, as the Romany call Cambridgeshire. Amidst these Chorody caravans and Gypsy tents may frequently be seen the ker-vardo, the house on wheels, of one who, whenever he takes up his quarters here, is considered the cock of the walk, the king of the place. He is a little under forty years of age, and somewhat under five feet ten inches in height. His face is wonderfully like that of a mastiff of the largest size, particularly in its jowls; his neck is short and very thick, and must be nearly as strong as that of a bull; his chest is so broad that one does not like to say how broad it is; and the voice which every now and then proceeds from it has much the sound of that of the mighty dog just mentioned; his arms are long and exceedingly muscular, and his fists huge and bony. He wears a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, a coarse blue coat with short skirts, leggings, and high-lows. Such is the kral o’ the tan, the rex loci, the cock of the green. But what is he besides? Is he Gypsy, Chorody, or Hindity mush? I say, you had better not call him by any one of those names, for if you did he would perhaps hit you, and then, oh dear! That is Mr. G. A., a travelling horse-dealer, who lives in a caravan, and finds it frequently convenient to take up his abode for weeks together on Latimer’s Green. He is a thorough-bred Englishman, though he is married to a daughter of one of the old, sacred Gypsy p. 233families, a certain Lurina Ratziemescri, duck or heron female, who is a very handsome woman, and who has two brothers, dark, stealthy-looking young fellows, who serve with almost slavish obedience their sister’s lord and husband, listening uncomplainingly to his abuse of Gypsies, whom, though he lives amongst them and is married to one by whom he has several children, he holds in supreme contempt, never speaking of them but as a lying, thievish, cowardly set, any three of whom he could beat with one hand; as perhaps he could, for he is a desperate pugilist, and has three times fought in “the ring” with good men, whom, though not a scientific fighter, he beat with ease by dint of terrible blows, causing them to roar out. He is very well to do in the world; his caravan, a rather stately affair, is splendidly furnished within; and it is a pleasure to see his wife, at Hampton Court races, dressed in Gypsy fashion, decked with real gems and jewels and rich gold chains, and waited upon by her dark brothers dressed like dandy pages. How is all this expense supported? Why, by horsedealing. Mr. G. is, then, up to all kinds of horsedealers’ tricks, no doubt. Aye, aye, he is up to them, but he doesn’t practise them. He says it’s of no use, and that honesty is the best policy, and he’ll stick to it; and so he does, and finds the profit of it. His traffic in horses, though confined entirely to small people, such as market-gardeners, travellers, show-folks, and the like, is very great; every small person who wishes to buy a horse, or to sell a horse, or to swop a horse, goes to Mr. G., and has never reason to complain, for all acknowledge that p. 234he has done the fair thing by them; though all agree that there is no overreaching him, which indeed very few people try to do, deterred by the dread of his manual prowess, of which a Gypsy once gave to the writer the following striking illustration:—“He will jal oprey to a gry that’s wafodu, prawla, and coure leste tuley with the courepen of his wast.” (He will go up to a vicious horse, brother, and knock him down with a blow of his fist.)
Of the open spaces mentioned earlier, the largest is called Latimer’s Green. It’s located on the northwest side of the area, not far from the famous place known as Shepherd’s Bush, where, in olden times, highwaymen used to hide and ambush travelers on the Oxford Road. It spans about five or six acres and, although it's supposedly overseen by trustees, it’s basically a “no man’s land” where anyone can feed a horse, light a fire, and boil a kettle. It’s a popular spot for transient people, mostly those who consider themselves travelers, referred to by Gypsies as Chorodies, who mostly live in shabby caravans. However, there are usually a couple of Gypsy tents set up belonging to some Deighton or Shaw, or maybe Petulengro, from the Lil-engro Tan, as the Romany call Cambridgeshire. Among these Chorody caravans and Gypsy tents, you’ll often see the ker-vardo, a house on wheels, belonging to someone who, whenever he stays here, is viewed as the top dog, the king of the area. He’s nearly forty years old and just under five feet ten inches tall. His face resembles that of a large mastiff, especially around the jowls; his neck is short and thick, likely as strong as a bull; his chest is so broad it’s hard to describe; and the voice that occasionally comes from him sounds much like that of the mighty dog mentioned earlier. His arms are long and very muscular, and his fists are huge and bony. He wears a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, a rough blue coat with short skirts, leggings, and high-lows. Such is the kral o’ the tan, the rex loci, the king of the green. But who is he really? Is he Gypsy, Chorody, or Hindity mush? I suggest you don’t call him any of those names, as he might hit you, and then, oh dear! That’s Mr. G. A., a traveling horse dealer who lives in a caravan and often finds it convenient to stay for weeks at Latimer’s Green. He’s a thoroughbred Englishman, though he’s married to the daughter of one of the old, respected Gypsy families, a certain Lurina Ratziemescri, who is a very attractive woman and has two brothers, dark and stealthy-looking young men, who serve their sister’s husband with almost slavish loyalty, listening without complaint to his insults about Gypsies, whom he holds in deep contempt despite living among them and being married to one, with whom he has several children. He frequently describes them as a lying, thieving, cowardly lot, any three of whom he could defeat with one hand; and perhaps he could, because he’s a fierce fighter and has fought three times in “the ring” with skilled opponents, beating them easily with powerful blows that make them howl. He’s quite well-off; his caravan is quite impressive and luxuriously furnished inside; it’s a joy to see his wife at the Hampton Court races, dressed in Gypsy style, adorned with real gems and gold chains, and attended by her dark brothers dressed like dapper pages. How is all this luxury funded? By horse dealing. Mr. G. is indeed savvy to all kinds of horse dealer tricks, no doubt. Yes, he knows them, but he doesn’t use them. He says it’s pointless and that honesty is the best policy, and he sticks to it; and so he does, finding it profitable. His horse dealings, while entirely focused on small clients like market gardeners, travelers, and show folks, are extensive; every small person looking to buy, sell, or trade a horse goes to Mr. G. and has no reason to complain, as everyone agrees he treats them fairly; though it’s noted that no one tries to outsmart him, deterred by the fear of his physical strength, of which a Gypsy once gave the following vivid illustration: “He will jal oprey to a gry that’s wafodu, prawla, and coure leste tuley with the courepen of his wast.” (He will walk up to a vicious horse, brother, and knock it down with a blow of his fist.)
The arches of the railroad which bounds this region on the west and north serve as a resort for Gypsies, who erect within them their tents, which are thus sheltered in summer from the scorching rays of the sun, and in winter from the drenching rain. In what close proximity we sometimes find emblems of what is most rude and simple, and what is most artificial and ingenious! For example, below the arch is the Gypsy donkey-cart, whilst above it is thundering the chariot of fire which can run across a county in half an hour. The principal frequenters of these arches are Bosvils and Lees; the former are chiefly tinkers, and the latter esconyemengres, or skewer-makers. The reason for this difference is that the Bosvils are chiefly immigrants from the country, where there is not much demand for skewers, whereas the Lees are natives of the metropolis or the neighbourhood, where the demand for skewers has from time immemorial been enormously great. It was in the shelter of one of these arches that the celebrated Ryley Bosvil, the Gypsy king of Yorkshire, breathed his last a few years ago.
The arches of the railway that border this area to the west and north serve as a hangout for Gypsies, who set up their tents inside them, getting protection in the summer from the blazing sun and in the winter from the pouring rain. How close we sometimes find symbols of both the most basic and unrefined things, and of the most sophisticated and clever inventions! For instance, below the arch is a Gypsy donkey cart, while above it rushes the fire-breathing train that can travel across a county in half an hour. The main visitors to these arches are the Bosvils and the Lees; the former are mostly tinkers, and the latter are known as esconyemengres, or skewer-makers. The reason for this difference is that the Bosvils mainly come from the countryside, where there's not much need for skewers, whereas the Lees are locals from the city or nearby, where there's always been a huge demand for them. It was under one of these arches that the famous Ryley Bosvil, the Gypsy king of Yorkshire, passed away a few years ago.
p. 235THE MOUNT
Before quitting the subject of Metropolitan Gypsies there is another place to which it will be necessary to devote a few words, though it is less entitled to the appelation of Gypsyry than rookery. It is situated in the East of London, a region far more interesting to the ethnologist and the philologist than the West, for there he will find people of all kinds of strange races,—the wildest Irish; Greeks, both Orthodox and Papistical; Jews, not only Ashkenazim and Sephardim, but even Karaite; the worst, and consequently the most interesting, description of Germans, the sugar-bakers; lots of Malays; plenty of Chinamen; two or three dozen Hottentots, and about the same number of Gypsies, reckoning men, women, and children. Of the latter, and their place of abode, we have now only to do, leaving the other strange, odd people to be disposed of on some other occasion.
Before moving on from the topic of Metropolitan Gypsies, there's another area worth mentioning, even though it deserves the title of Gypsyry less than a rookery does. It's located in East London, a place that's far more intriguing to ethnologists and philologists than the West, because here they can find all sorts of unusual races—the most spirited Irish; Greeks, both Orthodox and Catholic; Jews, including Ashkenazi, Sephardic, and even Karaite; the most interesting and often troublesome types of Germans, mainly sugar-bakers; a lot of Malays; plenty of Chinese; a couple of dozen Hottentots; and about the same number of Gypsies, counting men, women, and children. Right now, we’ll focus only on the latter and their living situation, leaving the other peculiar groups for another time.
Not far from Shoreditch Church, and at a short distance from the street called Church Street, on the left hand, is a locality called Friars’ Mount, but generally for shortness called The Mount. It derives its name from a friary built upon a small hillock in the time of Popery, where a set of fellows lived in laziness and luxury on the offerings of foolish and superstitious people, who resorted thither to kiss and worship an ugly wooden image of the Virgin, said to be a first-rate stick at performing miraculous p. 236cures. The neighbourhood, of course, soon became a resort for vagabonds of every description, for wherever friars are found rogues and thieves are sure to abound; and about Friars’ Mount, highwaymen, coiners, and Gypsies dwelt in safety under the protection of the ministers of the miraculous image. The friary has long since disappeared, the Mount has been levelled, and the locality built over. The vice and villainy, however, which the friary called forth still cling to the district. It is one of the vilest dens of London, a grand resort for housebreakers, garotters, passers of bad money, and other disreputable people, though not for Gypsies; for however favourite a place it may have been for the Romany in the old time, it no longer finds much favour in their sight, from its not affording open spaces where they can pitch their tents. One very small street, however, is certainly entitled to the name of a Gypsy street, in which a few Gypsy families have always found it convenient to reside, and who are in the habit of receiving and lodging their brethren passing through London to and from Essex and other counties east of the metropolis. There is something peculiar in the aspect of this street, not observable in that of any of the others, which one who visits it, should he have been in Triana of Seville, would at once recognise as having seen in the aspect of the lanes and courts of that grand location of the Gypsies of the Andalusian capital.
Not far from Shoreditch Church, and a short distance from Church Street, on the left side, is an area called Friars' Mount, but it's commonly referred to as The Mount. It gets its name from a friary built on a small hill during the time of Catholicism, where a group of guys lived in laziness and luxury off the donations of gullible and superstitious people who came to kiss and worship a hideous wooden statue of the Virgin, rumored to be great at performing miraculous p. 236cures. Naturally, the area soon became a hangout for all sorts of drifters, because wherever friars are found, criminals and thieves aren't far behind; around Friars' Mount, highwaymen, counterfeiters, and Gypsies lived comfortably under the protection of the ministers of the miraculous statue. The friary has long since vanished, the Mount has been flattened, and buildings have gone up in its place. However, the vice and crime that the friary attracted still linger in the area. It is one of the most notorious spots in London, a hotspot for burglars, muggers, people passing counterfeit money, and other shady characters, though not for Gypsies; despite its past popularity among them, it has lost appeal due to the lack of open spaces for them to set up their tents. Nevertheless, there is one very small street that is definitely known as a Gypsy street, where a few Gypsy families have always conveniently lived and often accommodate their fellow travelers passing through London to and from Essex and other eastern counties. There’s something unique about the look of this street that you won’t find in any of the others, which someone visiting it, especially if they’ve been to Triana in Seville, would immediately recognize as similar to the vibe of the lanes and alleys in that famous area known for the Gypsies of the Andalusian capital.
The Gypsies of the Mount live much in the same manner as their brethren in the other Gypsyries of London. They chin the cost, make skewers, p. 237baskets, and let out donkeys for hire. The chief difference consists in their living in squalid houses, whilst the others inhabit dirty tents and caravans. The last Gypsy of any note who resided in this quarter was Joseph Lee; here he lived for a great many years, and here he died, having attained the age of ninety. During his latter years he was generally called Old Joe Lee, from his great age. His wife or partner, who was also exceedingly old, only survived him a few days. They were buried in the same grave, with much Gypsy pomp, in the neighbouring churchyard. They were both of pure Gypsy blood, and were generally known as the Gypsy king and queen of Shoreditch. They left a numerous family of children and grandchildren, some of whom are still to be found at the Mount. This old Joe Lee in his day was a celebrated horse and donkey witch—that is, he professed secrets which enabled him to make any wretched animal of either species exhibit for a little time the spirit and speed of “a flying drummedary.” He was illustriously related, and was very proud on that account, especially in being the brother’s son of old James, the cauring mush, whose exploits in the filching line will be remembered as long as the venerable tribe of Purrum, or Lee, continues in existence.
The Gypsies of the Mount live in much the same way as their relatives in other Gypsy communities in London. They chin the cost, make skewers, p. 237baskets, and rent out donkeys. The main difference is that they live in rundown houses, while the others stay in dirty tents and caravans. The last notable Gypsy who lived in this area was Joseph Lee; he lived here for many years and died at the age of ninety. In his later years, he was commonly referred to as Old Joe Lee because of his age. His wife or partner, who was also quite old, survived him by just a few days. They were buried together in the same grave, with a lot of Gypsy ceremony, in the nearby churchyard. They were both of pure Gypsy heritage and were well-known as the Gypsy king and queen of Shoreditch. They left behind a large family of children and grandchildren, some of whom are still found at the Mount. Old Joe Lee was famous in his time as a horse and donkey witch—that is, he claimed to know secrets that allowed him to make any miserable animal of either type show the spirit and speed of “a flying drummedary.” He had a notable lineage and was quite proud of it, especially being the nephew of old James, the cauring mush, whose thefts will be remembered as long as the respected tribe of Purrum or Lee exists.
p. 239RYLEY BOSVIL
p. 241Ryley Bosvil was a native of Yorkshire, a country where, as the Gypsies say, “there’s a deadly sight of Bosvils.” He was above the middle height, exceedingly strong and active, and one of the best riders in Yorkshire, which is saying a great deal. He was a thorough Gypsy, versed in all the arts of the old race, had two wives, never went to church, and considered that when a man died he was cast into the earth, and there was an end of him. He frequently used to say that if any of his people became Gorgios he would kill them. He had a sister of the name of Clara, a nice, delicate, interesting girl, about fourteen years younger than himself, who travelled about with an aunt; this girl was noticed by a respectable Christian family, who, taking a great interest in her, persuaded her to come and live with them. She was instructed by them in the rudiments of the Christian religion, appeared delighted with her new friends, and promised never to leave them. After the lapse of about six weeks there was a knock at the door; a dark man stood before it who said he wanted Clara. Clara went out trembling, had some discourse with the man in an unknown tongue, and p. 242shortly returned in tears, and said that she must go. “What for?” said her friends. “Did you not promise to stay with us?” “I did so,” said the girl, weeping more bitterly; “but that man is my brother, who says I must go with him, and what he says must be.” So with her brother she departed, and her Christian friends never saw her again. What became of her? Was she made away with? Many thought she was, but she was not. Ryley put her into a light cart, drawn by “a flying pony,” and hurried her across England, even to distant Norfolk, where he left her, after threatening her, with three Gypsy women who were devoted to him. With these women the writer found her one night encamped in a dark wood, and had much discourse with her, both on Christian and Egyptian matters. She was very melancholy, bitterly regretted having been compelled to quit her Christian friends, and said that she wished she had never been a Gypsy. The writer, after exhorting her to keep a firm grip of her Christianity, departed, and did not see her again for nearly a quarter of a century, when he met her on Epsom Downs, on the Derby day when the terrible horse Gladiateur beat all the English steeds. She was then very much changed, very much changed indeed, appearing as a full-blown Egyptian matron, with two very handsome daughters flaringly dressed in genuine Gypsy fashion, to whom she was giving motherly counsels as to the best means to hok and dukker the gentlefolks. All her Christianity she appeared to have flung to the dogs, for when the writer spoke to her on that very important subject, she made no answer p. 243save by an indescribable Gypsy look. On other matters she was communicative enough, telling the writer, amongst other things, that since he saw her she had been twice married, and both times very well, for that her first husband, by whom she had the two daughters whom the writer “kept staring at,” was a man every inch of him, and her second, who was then on the Downs grinding knives with a machine he had, though he had not much manhood, being nearly eighty years old, had something much better, namely a mint of money, which she hoped shortly to have in her own possession.
p. 241Ryley Bosvil was originally from Yorkshire, a place where, as the Gypsies say, “there are a lot of Bosvils.” He was taller than average, very strong and active, and one of the best riders in Yorkshire, which is quite a compliment. He was a true Gypsy, skilled in all the traditions of his people, had two wives, never attended church, and believed that when someone died, they were buried in the ground, and that was the end of them. He often said that if any of his family tried to live like Gorgios, he would kill them. He had a sister named Clara, a lovely, delicate, and captivating girl, about fourteen years younger than him, who traveled with an aunt. This girl caught the attention of a respectable Christian family, who, taking a strong interest in her, convinced her to come live with them. They taught her the basics of Christianity, she seemed thrilled with her new friends, and promised she would never leave them. After about six weeks, there was a knock at the door; a dark man stood there saying he wanted Clara. Clara stepped outside trembling, had a conversation with the man in a language the family didn’t understand, and p. 242quickly returned in tears, saying she had to go. “Why?” asked her friends. “Didn’t you promise to stay with us?” “I did,” the girl replied, crying harder, “but that man is my brother, who says I must go with him, and what he says goes.” So she left with her brother, and her Christian friends never saw her again. What happened to her? Did something terrible happen? Many thought so, but that wasn’t the case. Ryley loaded her into a small cart pulled by a “fast pony” and rushed her across England, all the way to distant Norfolk, where he left her, after threatening her, with three Gypsy women who were loyal to him. The writer found her one night camped in a dark forest, and they talked a lot about both Christian and Gypsy topics. She was very sad, regretting having to leave her Christian friends, and said she wished she had never been a Gypsy. The writer encouraged her to hold on to her Christianity and then left, not seeing her again for nearly twenty-five years, when he encountered her on Epsom Downs on Derby day, when the infamous horse Gladiateur beat all the English horses. By then, she had changed a lot, looking like a full-fledged Gypsy matriarch, with two beautiful daughters dressed in vibrant Gypsy style, whom she was advising on how to charm and deceive the wealthy. It seemed she had completely abandoned her Christianity, as when the writer brought up that important topic, she didn’t respond p. 243except with an unexplainable Gypsy glance. On other subjects, she was quite talkative, telling the writer that since he last saw her, she had been married twice, both times quite successfully, saying her first husband, the father of her daughters whom the writer “kept staring at,” was a real man, and her second husband, who was then on the Downs sharpening knives with a machine he owned, though he was nearly eighty and lacked much virility, had something far more valuable—lots of money, which she hoped to soon get her hands on.
Ryley, like most of the Bosvils, was a tinker by profession; but, though a tinker, he was amazingly proud and haughty of heart. His grand ambition was to be a great man among his people, a Gypsy King. To this end he furnished himself with clothes made after the costliest Gypsy fashion: the two hinder buttons of the coat, which was of thick blue cloth, were broad gold pieces of Spain, generally called ounces; the fore-buttons were English “spaded guineas”; the buttons of the waistcoat were half-guineas, and those of the collar and the wrists of his shirt were seven-shilling gold pieces. In this coat he would frequently make his appearance on a magnificent horse, whose hoofs, like those of the steed of a Turkish sultan, were cased in shoes of silver. How did he support such expense? it may be asked. Partly by driving a trade in wafodu luvvu, counterfeit coin, with which he was supplied by certain honest tradespeople of Brummagem; partly and principally by large sums of money which he received from p. 244his two wives, and which they obtained by the practice of certain arts peculiar to Gypsy females. One of his wives was a truly remarkable woman: she was of the Petulengro or Smith tribe; her Christian name, if Christian name it can be called, was Xuri or Shuri, and from her exceeding smartness and cleverness she was generally called by the Gypsies Yocky Shuri,—that is, smart or clever Shuri, yocky being a Gypsy word, signifying ‘clever.’ She could dukker—that is, tell fortunes—to perfection, by which alone during the racing season she could make a hundred pounds a month. She was good at the big hok, that is, at inducing people to put money into her hands, in the hope of its being multiplied; and, oh dear! how she could caur—that is, filch gold rings and trinkets from jewellers’ cases; the kind of thing which the Spanish Gypsy women call ustilar pastesas, filching with the hands. Frequently she would disappear, and travel about England, and Scotland too, dukkering, hokking, and cauring, and after the lapse of a month return and deliver to her husband, like a true and faithful wife, the proceeds of her industry. So no wonder that the Flying Tinker, as he was called, was enabled to cut a grand appearance. He was very fond of hunting, and would frequently join the field in regular hunting costume, save and except that, instead of the leather hunting-cap, he wore one of fur with a gold band around it, to denote that though he mixed with Gorgios he was still a Romany-chal. Thus equipped and mounted on a capital hunter, whenever he encountered a Gypsy encampment he would invariably dash through it, doing all the harm he could, in order, as he said, p. 245to let the juggals know that he was their king and had a right to do what he pleased with his own. Things went on swimmingly for a great many years, but, as prosperity does not continue for ever, his dark hour came at last. His wives got into trouble in one or two expeditions, and his dealings in wafodu luvvu began to be noised about. Moreover, by his grand airs and violent proceedings he had incurred the hatred of both Gorgios and Gypsies, particularly of the latter, some of whom he had ridden over and lamed for life. One day he addressed his two wives:—
Ryley, like most of the Bosvils, was a tinker by trade; but even as a tinker, he was incredibly proud and arrogant. His big dream was to be a great man among his people, a Gypsy King. To achieve this, he dressed in the most extravagant Gypsy style: the two back buttons of his thick blue coat were broad gold coins from Spain, known as ounces; the front buttons were English “spaded guineas”; the buttons on his waistcoat were half-guineas, and those on the collar and cuffs of his shirt were seven-shilling gold pieces. He often showed up in this coat on a magnificent horse, whose hooves, much like a Turkish sultan's steed, were shod in silver shoes. You might wonder how he could afford such expenses. Partly it was by dealing in wafodu luvvu, counterfeit coins, which he got from some honest traders in Brummagem; and mainly from the large sums of money he received from p. 244 his two wives, which they earned through certain skills unique to Gypsy women. One of his wives was truly remarkable: she belonged to the Petulengro or Smith tribe; her Christian name, if you could call it that, was Xuri or Shuri, and due to her exceptional cleverness, she was often called by the Gypsies Yocky Shuri—that is, smart or clever Shuri, with yocky being a Gypsy word meaning 'clever.' She could dukker—that is, tell fortunes—perfectly, and during the racing season, she could make a hundred pounds a month just doing that. She was skilled at the big hok, meaning she could persuade people to hand over money with the hope of multiplying it; and oh my! how she could caur—that is, steal gold rings and jewelry from cases; the kind of trick Spanish Gypsy women call ustilar pastesas, stealing with her hands. She often disappeared, traveling across England and Scotland, dukkering, hokking, and cauring, and after a month, she'd return and faithfully give her husband the fruits of her labor. So it’s no wonder that the Flying Tinker, as he was called, managed to maintain a grand appearance. He loved hunting and would often join in the hunt in full hunting gear, except instead of a leather cap, he wore a fur one with a gold band to show that even though he mingled with Gorgios, he was still a Romany-chal. Fully equipped and mounted on a top-notch hunter, whenever he came across a Gypsy encampment, he would always ride through it, causing as much destruction as he could, claiming it was to let the juggals know he was their king and had the right to do as he pleased with his own. Everything went smoothly for many years, but since prosperity doesn’t last forever, his downfall eventually came. His wives got into trouble during a few outings, and word of his dealings in wafodu luvvu began to spread. Furthermore, his arrogant behaviors and violent actions earned him the dislike of both Gorgios and Gypsies, especially the latter, some of whom he had injured for life. One day he spoke to his two wives:—
“The Gorgios seek to hang me,
The Gypsies seek to kill me:
This country we must leave.”
“The Gorgios want to hang me,
The Gypsies want to kill me:
We need to leave this country.”
Shuri.
Shuri.
“I’ll jaw with you to heaven,
I’ll jaw with you to Yaudors—
But not if Lura goes.”
“I'll chat with you all the way to heaven,
I'll talk with you to the ends of the earth—
But not if Lura comes along.”
Lura.
Lura.
“I’ll jaw with you to heaven,
And to the wicked country,
Though Shuri goeth too.”
“I’ll chat with you all the way to heaven,
And to the wicked place,
Even if Shuri goes too.”
Ryley.
Ryley.
“Since I must choose betwixt ye,
My choice is Yocky Shuri,
Though Lura loves me best.”
“Since I have to choose between you,
My choice is Yocky Shuri,
Even though Lura loves me the most.”
Lura.
Lura
“My blackest curse on Shuri!
Oh, Ryley, I’ll not curse you,
But you will never thrive.”
“My deepest curse on Shuri!
Oh, Ryley, I won’t curse you,
But you will never succeed.”
Ryley.
Ryley.
“I’ve chosen now betwixt ye;
Your wish you now have gotten,
But for it you shall smart.”
“I’ve chosen now between you;
Your wish you now have gotten,
But for it, you shall suffer.”
He then struck her with his fist on the cheek, and broke her jawbone. Shuri uttered no cry or complaint, only mumbled:
He then hit her in the cheek with his fist, breaking her jaw. Shuri didn’t cry out or complain, she just mumbled:
“Although with broken jawbone,
I’ll follow thee, my Ryley,
Since Lura doesn’t jal.”
“Even with a broken jaw,
I’ll follow you, my Ryley,
Since Lura doesn’t care.”
Thereupon Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire, and wended their way to London, where they took up their abode in the Gypsyry near the Shepherd’s Bush. Shuri went about dukkering and hokking, but not with the spirit of former times, for she was not quite so young as she had been, and her jaw, which was never properly cured, pained her much. Ryley went about tinkering, but he was unacquainted with London and its neighbourhood, and did not get much to do. An old Gypsy-man, who was driving about a little cart filled with skewers, saw him standing in a state of perplexity at a place where four roads met.
Ryley and Yocky Shuri left Yorkshire and made their way to London, where they settled in the Gypsy community near Shepherd’s Bush. Shuri wandered around dukkering and hokking, but not with the enthusiasm of her younger days, as she wasn’t as young anymore and her jaw, which had never healed properly, hurt her a lot. Ryley tried tinkering, but he was unfamiliar with London and its surroundings, so he didn't have much to do. An old Gypsy man, pulling a small cart filled with skewers, noticed him standing confused at a junction where four roads met.
Old Gypsy.
Romani.
“Methinks I see a brother!
Who’s your father? Who’s your mother?
And what may be your name?”
“I think I see a brother!
Who’s your dad? Who’s your mom?
And what’s your name?”
“A Bosvil was my father;
A Bosvil was my mother;
And Ryley is my name.”
“A Bosvil was my dad;
A Bosvil was my mom;
And Ryley is my name.”
Old Gypsy.
Vintage Romani.
“I’m glad to see you, brother!
I am a Kaulo Camlo. [247a]
What service can I do?”
“I’m glad to see you, brother!
I am a Kaulo Camlo. [247a]
How can I help you?”
Ryley.
Ryley.
“I’m jawing petulengring, [247b]
But do not know the country;
Perhaps you’ll show me round.”
“I’m chatting annoyingly, [247b]
But I don’t know the area;
Maybe you can show me around.”
Old Gypsy.
Old Traveller.
“I’ll sikker tute, prala!
I’m bikkening esconyor; [247c]
Av, av along with me!”
“I’ll definitely go, prala!
I’m really curious; [247c]
Come on, let’s go together!”
The old Gypsy showed Ryley about the country for a week or two, and Ryley formed a kind of connection, and did a little business. He, however, displayed little or no energy, was gloomy and dissatisfied, and frequently said that his heart was broken since he had left Yorkshire.
The old Gypsy showed Ryley around the countryside for a week or two, and Ryley developed a sort of connection and did a bit of business. However, he put in very little effort, was gloomy and unhappy, and often said that his heart was broken since he left Yorkshire.
Shuri did her best to cheer him, but without effect. Once, when she bade him get up and exert himself, he said that if he did it would be of little use, and asked her whether she did not remember the parting prophecy of his other wife that he would never thrive. At the end of about p. 248two years he ceased going his rounds, and did nothing but smoke under the arches of the railroad, and loiter about beershops. At length he became very weak, and took to his bed; doctors were called in by his faithful Shuri, but there is no remedy for a bruised spirit. A Methodist came and asked him, “What was his hope?” “My hope,” said he, “is that when I am dead I shall be put into the ground, and my wife and children will weep over me.” And such, it may be observed, is the last hope of every genuine Gypsy. His hope was gratified. Shuri and his children, of whom he had three—two stout young fellows and a girl—gave him a magnificent funeral, and screamed, shouted, and wept over his grave. They then returned to the “Arches,” not to divide his property amongst them, and to quarrel about the division, according to Christian practice, but to destroy it. They killed his swift pony—still swift, though twenty-seven years of age—and buried it deep in the ground, without depriving it of its skin. They then broke the caravan and cart to pieces, making of the fragments a fire, on which 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. Such was the life, such the death, and such were the funeral obsequies of Ryley Bosvil, a Gypsy who will be long remembered amongst the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, his grand airs, and last, and not least, for having been the composer of various stanzas in the Gypsy tongue, which have plenty p. 249of force, if nothing else, to recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, runs as follows:
Shuri did her best to lift his spirits, but it didn’t work. Once, when she urged him to get up and try, he replied that it wouldn’t matter and reminded her of the parting prophecy from his previous wife that he would never succeed. After about p. 248two years, he stopped going out and only smoked under the railroad arches and hung around bars. Eventually, he grew very weak and ended up in bed; doctors were called by his loyal Shuri, but there’s no cure for a broken spirit. A Methodist came and asked him, “What is your hope?” He replied, “My hope is that when I die, I will be buried, and my wife and children will cry over me.” And as it turns out, this is the last hope of every true Gypsy. His hope was fulfilled. Shuri and his three children—two strong young men and a girl—gave him a grand funeral, crying and shouting over his grave. They then returned to the “Arches,” not to divide his belongings with arguments, as is typical in Christian practice, but to destroy them. They killed his fast pony—still quick, even at twenty-seven years old—and buried it deep in the ground, taking care not to remove its skin. Then they smashed the caravan and cart into pieces, using the scraps to start a fire, onto which they threw his bedding, carpets, curtains, blankets, and anything else that could burn. Finally, they shattered his mirrors, china, and pottery, broke his metal pots, dishes, and other items into bits, and tossed everything onto the blazing pile. Such was the life, such was the death, and such were the funeral rites of Ryley Bosvil, a Gypsy who will be long remembered among the English Romany for his buttons, his two wives, his grand demeanor, and last but not least, for having composed various verses in the Gypsy language, which have plenty p. 249of strength, if nothing else, to recommend them. One of these, addressed to Yocky Shuri, goes as follows:
Tuley the Can I kokkeney cam
Like my rinkeny Yocky Shuri:
Oprey the chongor in ratti I’d cour
For my rinkeny Yocky Shuri!
Tuley the Can I kokkeney cam
Like my rinkeny Yocky Shuri:
Oprey the chongor in ratti I’d cour
For my rinkeny Yocky Shuri!
Which may be thus rendered:
Which can be expressed as:
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!
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!
p. 251KIRK YETHOLM
p. 253There are two Yetholms—Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm. They stand at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from each other, and between them is a valley, down which runs a small stream, called the Beaumont River, crossed by a little stone bridge. Of the town there is not much to be said. It is a long, straggling place, on the road between Morbuttle and Kelso, from which latter place it is distant about seven miles. It is comparatively modern, and sprang up when the Kirk town began to fall into decay. Kirk Yetholm derives the first part of its name from the church, which serves for a place of worship not only for the inhabitants of the place, but for those of the town also. The present church is modern, having been built on the site of the old kirk, which was pulled down in the early part of the present century, and which had been witness of many a strange event connected with the wars between England and Scotland. It stands at the entrance of the place, on the left hand as you turn to the village after ascending the steep road which leads from the bridge. The place occupies the lower portion of a hill, a spur of the Cheviot range, behind which is another hill, much higher, p. 254rising to an altitude of at least 900 feet. At one time it was surrounded by a stone wall, and at the farther end is a gateway overlooking a road leading to the English border, from which Kirk Yetholm is distant only a mile and a quarter; the boundary of the two kingdoms being here a small brook called Shorton Burn, on the English side of which is a village of harmless, simple Northumbrians, differing strangely in appearance, manner, and language from the people who live within a stone’s throw of them on the other side.
p. 253There are two Yetholms—Town Yetholm and Kirk Yetholm. They are about a quarter of a mile apart, separated by a valley with a small stream, known as the Beaumont River, which is crossed by a little stone bridge. There's not much to say about the town. It’s a long, winding place on the road between Morbuttle and Kelso, which is about seven miles away. It’s relatively modern and developed as the Kirk town started to decline. Kirk Yetholm gets the first part of its name from the church, which serves not only the local residents but also those from the town. The current church is modern, built on the site of the old kirk that was demolished early this century and witnessed many strange events related to the wars between England and Scotland. It’s located at the entrance, on the left side as you approach the village after climbing the steep road that leads from the bridge. The village occupies the lower part of a hill, a spur of the Cheviot range, behind which is a much higher hill, p. 254 rising to about 900 feet. At one time, it was surrounded by a stone wall, and at the farther end is a gateway that overlooks a road leading to the English border, just a mile and a quarter away; the boundary between the two kingdoms is marked by a small brook called Shorton Burn, with a village of harmless, simple Northumbrians on the English side, markedly different in appearance, manner, and language from the people living just a stone's throw away on the other side.
Kirk Yetholm is a small place, but with a remarkable look. It consists of a street, terminating in what is called a green, with houses on three sides, but open on the fourth, or right side to the mountain, towards which quarter it is grassy and steep. Most of the houses are ancient, and are built of rude stone. By far the most remarkable-looking house is a large and dilapidated building, which has much the appearance of a ruinous Spanish posada or venta. There is not much life in the place, and you may stand ten minutes where the street opens upon the square without seeing any other human beings than two or three women seated at the house doors, or a ragged, bare-headed boy or two lying on the grass on the upper side of the Green. It came to pass that late one Saturday afternoon, at the commencement of August, in the year 1866, I was standing where the street opens on this Green, or imperfect square. My eyes were fixed on the dilapidated house, the appearance of which awakened in my mind all kinds of odd ideas. “A strange-looking place,” said I to p. 255myself at last, “and I shouldn’t wonder if strange things have been done in it.”
Kirk Yetholm is a small place, but it has a unique look. It has a street that ends in what’s called a green, surrounded by houses on three sides, with one side open towards the mountain, which is grassy and steep. Most of the houses are old and made of rough stone. The most eye-catching house is a large, rundown building that looks a lot like a crumbling Spanish inn or tavern. There isn’t much activity here; you could stand for ten minutes where the street meets the square and only see a couple of women sitting at their doorsteps or a few ragged, bare-headed boys lounging on the grass at the upper side of the Green. One late Saturday afternoon, at the beginning of August in 1866, I found myself standing where the street opens onto this Green, or incomplete square. I was staring at the dilapidated house, which sparked all sorts of strange thoughts in my mind. “What a peculiar place,” I said to myself, “and I wouldn’t be surprised if unusual things have happened here.”
“Come to see the Gypsy toon, sir?” said a voice not far from me.
“Are you here to check out the Gypsy show, sir?” said a voice nearby.
I turned, and saw standing within two yards of me a woman about forty years of age, of decent appearance, though without either cap or bonnet.
I turned and saw a woman about two yards away from me. She looked to be around forty years old, of respectable appearance, though she wasn't wearing a cap or a bonnet.
“A Gypsy town, is it?” said I; “why, I thought it had been Kirk Yetholm.”
“A Gypsy town, is it?” I said; “I thought it was Kirk Yetholm.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, if it is Kirk Yetholm, must it not be a Gypsy toon? Has not Kirk Yetholm ever been a Gypsy toon?”
Woman.—“Well, sir, if it is Kirk Yetholm, isn’t it a Gypsy town? Hasn’t Kirk Yetholm always been a Gypsy town?”
Myself.—“My good woman, ‘ever’ is a long term, and Kirk Yetholm must have been Kirk Yetholm long before there were Gypsies in Scotland, or England either.”
Me.—“My good woman, ‘ever’ is a long time, and Kirk Yetholm must have been Kirk Yetholm long before there were Gypsies in Scotland or England, for that matter.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, your honour may be right, and I dare say is; for your honour seems to be a learned gentleman. Certain, however, it is that Kirk Yetholm has been a Gypsy toon beyond the memory of man.”
Woman.—“Well, sir, you may be right, and I believe you are; because you seem to be an educated gentleman. However, it is certain that Kirk Yetholm has been a Gypsy town for as long as anyone can remember.”
Myself.—“You do not seem to be a Gypsy.”
Myself.—“You don’t look like a Gypsy.”
Woman.—“Seem to be a Gypsy! Na, na, sir! I am the bairn of decent parents, and belong not to Kirk Yetholm, but to Haddington.”
Woman.—“I look like a Gypsy? No, no, sir! I am the child of respectable parents, and I don’t come from Kirk Yetholm, but from Haddington.”
Myself.—“And what brought you to Kirk Yetholm?”
Myself.—“So, what made you come to Kirk Yetholm?”
Woman.—“Oh, my ain little bit of business brought me to Kirk Yetholm, sir.”
Woman.—“Oh, my own little task brought me to Kirk Yetholm, sir.”
Myself.—“Which is no business of mine. That’s a queer-looking house there.”
Me.—“That's not my concern. That house looks really strange.”
Myself.—“No. How should I? I am here for the first time, and after taking a bite and sup at the inn at the town over yonder I strolled hither.”
Myself.—“No. How could I? I'm here for the first time, and after grabbing a bite to eat at the inn in the town over there, I walked over.”
Woman.—“Does your honour come from far?”
Woman.—“Are you visiting from a long way away?”
Myself.—“A good way. I came from Strandraar, the farthest part of Galloway, where I landed from a ship which brought me from Ireland.”
Myself.—“A good way. I came from Strandraar, the farthest part of Galloway, where I arrived on a ship that brought me over from Ireland.”
Woman.—“And what may have brought your honour into these parts?”
Woman.—“What brings you to this area, sir?”
Myself.—“Oh, my ain wee bit of business brought me into these parts.”
Me.—“Oh, my little bit of business brought me to this area.”
“Which wee bit of business is nae business of mine,” said the woman, smiling. “Weel, your honour is quite right to keep your ain counsel; for, as your honour weel kens, if a person canna keep his ain counsel it is nae likely that any other body will keep it for him. But to gae back to the queer house, and the queer man that once ’habited it. That man, your honour, was old Will Faa.”
“Which little bit of business is none of my concern,” said the woman, smiling. “Well, you’re absolutely right to keep your own counsel; because, as you know well, if someone can’t keep their own secrets, it’s unlikely anyone else will keep them for them. But to return to the strange house and the strange man who used to live there. That man, my friend, was old Will Faa.”
Myself.—“Old Will Faa!”
Me.—“Old Will Faa!”
Woman.—“Yes. Old Will Faa, the Gypsy king, smuggler, and innkeeper; he lived in that inn.”
Woman.—“Yeah. Old Will Faa, the Gypsy king, smuggler, and innkeeper; he lived in that inn.”
Myself.—“Oh, then that house has been an inn?”
Me.—“Oh, so that house used to be an inn?”
Woman.—“It still is an inn, and has always been an inn; and though it has such an eerie look it is sometimes lively enough, more especially after the Gypsies have returned from their summer excursions in the country. It’s a roaring place then. They spend most of their sleight-o’-hand gains in that house.”
Woman.—“It’s still an inn, and it always has been; and even though it looks a bit creepy, it can get pretty lively, especially after the Gypsies come back from their summer trips in the countryside. It’s a wild place then. They spend most of their trick money in that house.”
Woman.—“No, sir; there are no Faas to keep it. The name is clean dead in the land, though there is still some of the blood remaining.”
Woman.—“No, sir; there are no Faas to carry it on. The name is completely dead in this land, even though some of the blood remains.”
Myself.—“I really should like to see some of the blood.”
Me.—“I really want to see some of the blood.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, you can do that without much difficulty; there are not many Gypsies just now in Kirk Yetholm; but the one who they say has more of his blood than any one else happens to be here. I mean his grandbairn—his daughter’s daughter; she whom they ca’ the ‘Gypsy Queen o’ Yetholm,’ and whom they lead about the toon once a year, mounted on a cuddy, with a tin crown on her head, with much shouting, and with mony a barbaric ceremony.”
Woman.—“Well, sir, you can do that without much trouble; there aren’t many Gypsies around in Kirk Yetholm right now, but the one who’s said to have more of his blood than anyone else is here. I’m talking about his granddaughter—his daughter’s daughter; the one they call the ‘Gypsy Queen of Yetholm,’ and they parade her around town once a year, riding a donkey, wearing a tin crown on her head, along with a lot of shouting and various wild ceremonies.”
Myself.—“I really should like to see her.”
Me.—“I’d really like to see her.”
Woman.—“Weel, sir, there’s a woman behind you, seated at the doorway, who can get your honour not only the sight of her, but the speech of her, for she is one of the race, and a relation of hers; and, to tell ye the truth, she has had her eye upon your honour for some time past, expecting to be asked about the qeeen, for scarcely anybody comes to Yetholm but goes to see the queen; and some gae so far as to say that they merely crowned her queen in hopes of bringing grist to the Gypsy mill.”
Woman.—“Well, sir, there’s a woman behind you, sitting at the doorway, who can not only show you herself but also talk to you because she’s one of the tribe and a relative of hers; to be honest, she’s been watching you for a while, hoping you’d ask about the queen, since hardly anyone comes to Yetholm without visiting the queen; some even go so far as to say they crowned her queen just to attract visitors to the Gypsy mill.”
I thanked the woman, and was about to turn away, in order to address myself to the other woman seated on the step, when my obliging friend said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but before ye go I wish to caution you, when you get to the speech of the queen, not to put any speerings to her about p. 258a certain tongue or dialect which they say the Gypsies have. All the Gypsies become glum and dour as soon as they are spoken to about their language, and particularly the queen. The queen might say something uncivil to your honour, should you ask her questions about her language.”
I thanked the woman and was about to turn away to talk to the other woman sitting on the step when my helpful friend said, “Excuse me, sir, but before you go, I want to warn you that when you get to the queen's speech, don’t ask her any questions about p. 258 a certain language or dialect that people say the Gypsies have. All the Gypsies get really serious and unhappy as soon as you mention their language, especially the queen. The queen might respond rudely to you if you bring up her language.”
Myself.—“Oh, then the Gypsies of Yetholm have a language of their own?”
Myself.—“Oh, so the Gypsies of Yetholm have their own language?”
Woman.—“I canna say, sir; I dinna ken whether they have or not; I have been at Yetholm several years, about my ain wee bit o’ business, and never heard them utter a word that was not either English or broad Scotch. Some people say that they have a language of their ain, and others say that they have nane, and moreover that, though they call themselves Gypsies, they are far less Gypsy than Irish, a great deal of Irish being mixed in their veins with a very little of the much more respectable Gypsy blood. It may be sae, or it may be not; perhaps your honour will find out. That’s the woman, sir, just behind ye at the door. Gud e’en. I maun noo gang and boil my cup o’tay.”
Woman.—“I can’t say, sir; I don’t know whether they have or not; I’ve been in Yetholm for several years, handling my own little business, and I’ve never heard them say a word that wasn’t either English or broad Scottish. Some people say they have their own language, while others claim they don’t, and that even though they call themselves Gypsies, they’re actually more Irish than anything else, with quite a bit of Irish in their blood and just a little bit of the much more respectable Gypsy heritage. It might be true, or it might not; maybe you’ll find out. That’s the woman, sir, just behind you at the door. Good evening. I must go now and make my cup of tea.”
To the woman at the door I now betook myself. She was seated on the threshold, and employed in knitting. She was dressed in white, and had a cap on her head, from which depended a couple of ribbons, one on each side. As I drew near she looked up. She had a full, round, smooth face, and her complexion was brown, or rather olive, a hue which contrasted with that of her eyes, which were blue.
To the woman at the door, I now approached. She was sitting on the threshold, knitting. She wore white and had a cap on her head, with a couple of ribbons hanging down on each side. As I got closer, she looked up. She had a full, round, smooth face, and her complexion was brown, or more like olive, a color that contrasted with her blue eyes.
“There is something Gypsy in that face,” said I to myself, as I looked at her; “but I don’t like those eyes.”
“There’s something Gypsy about that face,” I thought to myself as I looked at her; “but I don’t like those eyes.”
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, with very little of the Scotch accent; “it is a fine evening. Come to see the town?”
“Yes, sir,” said the woman, with very little of the Scottish accent; “it’s a beautiful evening. Here to check out the town?”
“Yes,” said I; “I am come to see the town. A nice little town it seems.”
“Yes,” I said; “I came to check out the town. It seems like a nice little place.”
“And I suppose come to see the Gypsies, too,” said the woman, with a half smile.
“And I guess I’ll come to see the Gypsies, too,” said the woman, with a half-smile.
“Well,” said I, “to be frank with you, I came to see the Gypsies. You are not one, I suppose?”
“Well,” I said, “to be honest with you, I came to see the Gypsies. You're not one, I assume?”
“Indeed I am,” said the woman, rather sharply, “and who shall say that I am not, seeing that I am a relation of old Will Faa, the man whom the woman from Haddington was speaking to you about; for I heard her mention his name?”
“Indeed I am,” said the woman, rather sharply, “and who can say that I’m not, considering I’m a relative of old Will Faa, the man the woman from Haddington was talking to you about; I heard her mention his name.”
“Then,” said I, “you must be related to her whom they call the Gypsy queen.”
“Then,” I said, “you must be related to the woman they call the Gypsy queen.”
“I am, indeed, sir. Would you wish to see her?”
"I am, indeed, sir. Would you like to see her?"
“By all means,” said I. “I should wish very much to see the Gypsy queen.”
“Of course,” I said. “I would really like to see the Gypsy queen.”
“Then I will show you to her, sir; many gentlefolks from England come to see the Gypsy queen of Yetholm. Follow me, sir!”
“Then I’ll take you to see her, sir; many people from England come to meet the Gypsy queen of Yetholm. Follow me, sir!”
She got up, and, without laying down her knitting-work, went round the corner, and began to ascend the hill. She was strongly made, and was rather above the middle height. She conducted me to a small house, some little way up the hill. As we were going, I said to her, “As you are a Gypsy, I suppose you have no objection to a coro of koshto levinor?” [259]
She got up and, without putting down her knitting, walked around the corner and started to climb the hill. She was strong and a bit taller than average. She led me to a small house further up the hill. As we walked, I said to her, “Since you’re a Gypsy, I guess you don’t mind a coro of koshto levinor?” [259]
“She is no true Gypsy, after all,” said I to myself.
“She’s not a real Gypsy, after all,” I said to myself.
We went through a little garden to the door of the house, which stood ajar. She pushed it open, and looked in; then, turning round, she said: “She is not here, sir; but she is close at hand. Wait here till I go and fetch her.” She went to a house a little farther up the hill, and I presently saw her returning with another female, of slighter build, lower in stature, and apparently much older. She came towards me with much smiling, smirking, and nodding, which I returned with as much smiling and nodding as if I had known her for threescore years. She motioned me with her hand to enter the house. I did so. The other woman returned down the hill, and the queen of the Gypsies entering, and shutting the door, confronted me on the floor, and said, in a rather musical, but slightly faltering voice:
We walked through a small garden to the door of the house, which was slightly open. She pushed it open and looked inside; then, turning around, she said: “She’s not here, sir, but she’s nearby. Wait here while I go get her.” She went to a house a little further up the hill, and I soon saw her coming back with another woman, who was smaller, shorter, and seemed much older. She approached me with lots of smiling, smirking, and nodding, which I returned with as much smiling and nodding as if I had known her for sixty years. She gestured for me to come inside. I did. The other woman went back down the hill, and the queen of the Gypsies entered, closed the door, faced me, and said in a somewhat musical but slightly shaky voice:
“Now, sir, in what can I oblige you?”
“Now, sir, how can I help you?”
Thereupon, letting the umbrella fall, which I invariably carry about with me in my journeyings, I flung my arms three times up into the air, and in an exceedingly disagreeable voice, owing to a cold which I had had for some time, and which I had caught amongst the lakes of Loughmaben, whilst hunting after Gypsies whom I could not find, I exclaimed:
Thereupon, dropping the umbrella that I always carry with me when I travel, I threw my arms up into the air three times, and in a really unpleasant voice, due to a cold I had been dealing with for a while, which I caught while searching for Gypsies around the lakes of Loughmaben, where I couldn’t find them, I exclaimed:
“Sossi your nav? Pukker mande tute’s nav! Shan tu a mumpli-mushi, or a tatchi Romany?”
“Sossi your name? Pukker mande tute’s name! Shan tu a mumpli-mushi, or a tatchi Romany?”
Which, interpreted into Gorgio, runs thus:
Which, translated into English, goes like this:
The woman appeared frightened, and for some time said nothing, but only stared at me. At length, recovering herself, she exclaimed, in an angry tone, “Why do you talk to me in that manner, and in that gibberish? I don’t understand a word of it.”
The woman looked scared and didn’t say anything for a while, just staring at me. Eventually, she regained her composure and shouted in an angry tone, “Why are you talking to me like that and using that nonsense? I don’t understand a single word!”
“Gibberish!” said I; “it is no gibberish; it is Zingarrijib, Romany rokrapen, real Gypsy of the old order.”
“Gibberish!” I said; “it’s not gibberish; it’s Zingarrijib, Romany rokrapen, real Gypsy of the old order.”
“Whatever it is,” said the woman, “it’s of no use speaking it to me. If you want to speak to me, you must speak English or Scotch.”
“Whatever it is,” said the woman, “it’s pointless to tell me. If you want to talk to me, you need to speak English or Scottish.”
“Why, they told me as how you were a Gypsy,” said I.
“Why, they told me you were a Gypsy,” I said.
“And they told you the truth,” said the woman; “I am a Gypsy, and a real one; I am not ashamed of my blood.”
“And they told you the truth,” said the woman; “I’m a Gypsy, and a real one; I’m not ashamed of my heritage.”
“If yer were a Gyptian,” said I, “yer would be able to speak Gyptian; but yer can’t, not a word.”
“If you were a Gyptian,” I said, “you would be able to speak Gyptian; but you can’t, not a word.”
“At any rate,” said the woman, “I can speak English, which is more than you can. Why, your way of speaking is that of the lowest vagrants of the roads.”
“At any rate,” said the woman, “I can speak English, which is more than you can. Why, your way of speaking is like that of the lowest drifters on the streets.”
“Oh, I have two or three ways of speaking English,” said I; “and when I speaks to low wagram folks, I speaks in a low wagram manner.”
“Oh, I have a couple of ways of speaking English,” I said; “and when I talk to folks from low wagram, I use a low wagram way of speaking.”
“Not very civil,” said the woman.
“Not very polite,” said the woman.
“A pretty Gypsy!” said I; “why, I’ll be bound you don’t know what a churi is!”
“A pretty Gypsy!” I said; “I bet you don’t know what a churi is!”
The woman gave me a sharp look; but made no reply.
The woman shot me a sharp look but didn’t say anything.
“Doesn’t she?” said the woman, evidently nettled; “doesn’t she?”
“Doesn’t she?” said the woman, clearly annoyed; “doesn’t she?”
“Why, do you mean to say that you know the meaning of churi?”
“Wait, are you saying that you know what churi means?”
“Why, of course I do,” said the woman.
“Of course I do,” said the woman.
“Hardly, my good lady,” said I; “hardly; a churi to you is merely a churi.”
“Not really, my good lady,” I said; “not really; a churi to you is just a churi.”
“A churi is a knife,” said the woman, in a tone of defiance; “a churi is a knife.”
“A churi is a knife,” the woman said, defiantly; “a churi is a knife.”
“Oh, it is,” said I; “and yet you tried to persuade me that you had no peculiar language of your own, and only knew English and Scotch: churi is a word of the language in which I spoke to you at first, Zingarrijib, or Gypsy language; and since you know that word, I make no doubt that you know others, and in fact can speak Gypsy. Come; let us have a little confidential discourse together.”
“Oh, it is,” I said; “and yet you tried to convince me that you didn’t have your own unique language and only knew English and Scottish: churi is a word from the language I first spoke to you in, Zingarrijib, or Gypsy language; and since you know that word, I have no doubt you know others, and in fact can speak Gypsy. Come on; let’s have a little private conversation together.”
The woman stood for some time, as if in reflection, and at length said: “Sir, before having any particular discourse with you, I wish to put a few questions to you, in order to gather from your answers whether it is safe to talk to you on Gypsy matters. You pretend to understand the Gypsy language: if I find you do not, I will hold no further discourse with you; and the sooner you take yourself off the better. If I find you do, I will talk with you as long as you like. What do you call that?”—and she pointed to the fire.
The woman stood there for a moment, as if lost in thought, and finally said: “Sir, before we dive into any specific conversation, I want to ask you a few questions to see if it’s safe to talk to you about Gypsy topics. You claim to understand the Gypsy language; if I find out you don’t, I won’t continue this conversation, and it would be best if you leave quickly. If I discover you do understand, I’ll happily chat with you as long as you’d like. What do you call that?”—and she pointed to the fire.
“Speaking Gyptianly?” said I.
“Speaking Egyptian?” I said.
The woman nodded.
The woman agreed.
“Whoy, I calls that yog.”
"Wow, I call that yog."
“Gyptian-loike?” said I.
"Like Gyptian?" I said.
“Yes.”
"Yep."
“Whoy, I calls that a juggal.”
“Wow, I call that a juggal.”
“And the hat on your head?”
“And the hat on your head?”
“Well, I have two words for that: a staury and a stadge.”
“Well, I have two words for that: a staury and a stadge.”
“Stadge,” said the woman, “we call it here. Now what’s a gun?”
“Stadge,” said the woman, “we call it here. Now what’s a gun?”
“There is no Gypsy in England,” said I, “can tell you the word for a gun; at least the proper word, which is lost. They have a word—yag-engro—but that is a made-up word signifying a fire-thing.”
“There is no Gypsy in England,” I said, “who can tell you the word for a gun; at least the right word, which is gone. They have a word—yag-engro—but that's a made-up word meaning a fire-thing.”
“Then you don’t know the word for a gun,” said the Gypsy.
“Then you don’t know the word for a gun,” said the Gypsy.
“Oh dear me! Yes,” said I; “the genuine Gypsy word for a gun is puschca. But I did not pick up that word in England, but in Hungary, where the Gypsies retain their language better than in England: puschca is the proper word for a gun, and not yag-engro, which may mean a fire-shovel, tongs, poker, or anything connected with fire, quite as well as a gun.”
“Oh dear! Yes,” I said; “the real Gypsy word for a gun is puschca. I didn’t learn that word in England, but in Hungary, where the Gypsies keep their language alive better than in England: puschca is the correct term for a gun, not yag-engro, which can mean a fire-shovel, tongs, poker, or anything related to fire, just as much as a gun.”
“Puschca is the word, sure enough,” said the Gypsy. “I thought I should have caught you there; and now I have but one more question to ask you, and when I have done so, you may as well go; for I am quite sure you cannot answer it. What is Nokkum?”
“Puschca is the word, for sure,” said the Gypsy. “I thought I had you there; and now I have just one more question to ask you, and once I do, you might as well leave; because I'm pretty sure you can't answer it. What is Nokkum?”
“Nokkum,” said I; “nokkum?”
“Nokkum,” I said; “nokkum?”
“Nokkum,” said I; “nokkum? The root of nokkum must be nok, which signifieth a nose.”
“Nokkum,” I said; “nokkum? The root of nokkum has to be nok, which means a nose.”
“A-h!” said the Gypsy, slowly drawing out the monosyllable, as if in astonishment.
“A-h!” said the Gypsy, stretching the sound out slowly, almost in disbelief.
“Yes,” said I; “the root of nokkum is assuredly nok, and I have no doubt that your people call themselves Nokkum because they are in the habit of nosing the Gorgios. Nokkums means Nosems.”
“Yes,” I said; “the root of nokkum is definitely nok, and I’m sure your people call themselves Nokkum because they tend to nose the Gorgios. Nokkums means Nosems.”
“Sit down, sir,” said the Gypsy, handing me a chair. “I am now ready to talk to you as much as you please about Nokkum words and matters, for I see there is no danger. But I tell you frankly that had I not found that you knew as much as, or a great deal more than, myself, not a hundred pounds, nor indeed all the money in Berwick, should have induced me to hold discourse with you about the words and matters of the Brown children of Kirk Yetholm.”
“Please take a seat, sir,” said the Gypsy, offering me a chair. “I’m ready to discuss Nokkum words and topics with you as much as you want, since I see there’s no risk. But I’ll be honest with you; if I hadn’t found out that you knew as much as—or even a lot more than—I do, not a hundred pounds, or even all the money in Berwick, would have convinced me to talk with you about the words and matters of the Brown children of Kirk Yetholm.”
I sat down in the chair which she handed me; she sat down in another, and we were presently in deep discourse about matters Nokkum. We first began to talk about words, and I soon found that her knowledge of Romany was anything but extensive; far less so, indeed, than that of the commonest English Gypsy woman, for whenever I addressed her in regular Gypsy sentences, and not in poggado jib, or broken language, she would giggle and say I was too deep for her. I should say that the sum total of her vocabulary barely amounted to three hundred words. Even of these p. 265there were several which were not pure Gypsy words—that is, belonging to the speech which the ancient Zingary brought with them to Britain. Some of her bastard Gypsy words belonged to the cant or allegorical jargon of thieves, who, in order to disguise their real meaning, call one thing by the name of another. For example, she called a shilling a ‘hog,’ a word belonging to the old English cant dialect, instead of calling it by the genuine Gypsy term tringurushi, the literal meaning of which is three groats. Then she called a donkey ‘asal,’ and a stone ‘cloch,’ which words are neither cant nor Gypsy, but Irish or Gaelic. I incurred her vehement indignation by saying they were Gaelic. She contradicted me flatly, and said that whatever else I might know I was quite wrong there; for that neither she nor any one of her people would condescend to speak anything so low as Gaelic, or indeed, if they possibly could avoid it, to have anything to do with the poverty-stricken creatures who used it. It is a singular fact that, though principally owing to the magic writings of Walter Scott, the Highland Gael and Gaelic have obtained the highest reputation in every other part of the world, they are held in the Lowlands in very considerable contempt. There the Highlander, elsewhere “the bold Gael with sword and buckler,” is the type of poverty and wretchedness; and his language, elsewhere “the fine old Gaelic, the speech of Adam and Eve in Paradise,” is the designation of every unintelligible jargon. But not to digress. On my expressing to the Gypsy queen my regret that she was unable to hold with me a regular p. 266conversation in Romany, she said that no one regretted it more than herself, but that there was no help for it; and that slight as I might consider her knowledge of Romany to be, it was far greater than that of any other Gypsy on the Border, or indeed in the whole of Scotland; and that as for the Nokkums, there was not one on the Green who was acquainted with half a dozen words of Romany, though the few words they had they prized high enough, and would rather part with their heart’s blood than communicate them to a stranger.
I sat down in the chair she handed me; she took a seat in another, and soon we were deep in conversation about things related to Nokkum. We started talking about words, and I quickly realized that her knowledge of Romany was quite limited; in fact, it was much less than that of a typical English Gypsy woman. Whenever I spoke to her in proper Gypsy sentences instead of poggado jib, or broken language, she would giggle and say I was too profound for her. I would estimate that her total vocabulary was barely around three hundred words. Even among those p. 265, there were several that were not genuine Gypsy words—that is, words from the language that the ancient Zingary brought with them to Britain. Some of her mixed Gypsy words belonged to the slang or coded language of thieves, who use different terms to hide the true meaning. For example, she referred to a shilling as a ‘hog,’ which comes from old English slang, rather than the authentic Gypsy word tringurushi, which literally means three groats. She also called a donkey ‘asal’ and a stone ‘cloch,’ words that are neither slang nor Gypsy, but Irish or Gaelic. I upset her greatly by saying they were Gaelic. She flatly disagreed and insisted that whatever else I might know, I was mistaken there; neither she nor anyone in her community would stoop to speak anything as low as Gaelic, or even have anything to do with the poor people who spoke it if they could help it. It’s an interesting fact that, largely due to the literary works of Walter Scott, the Highland Gael and Gaelic have gained high regard around the world, yet they are looked down upon in the Lowlands. There, the Highlander, who is admired elsewhere as “the bold Gael with sword and buckler,” is seen as a symbol of poverty and hardship; and his language, revered elsewhere as “the fine old Gaelic, the speech of Adam and Eve in Paradise,” is considered a term for any confusing jargon. But I digress. When I expressed to the Gypsy queen my disappointment that she couldn’t have a proper p. 266conversation with me in Romany, she acknowledged that no one regretted it more than she did, but there was nothing to be done about it. She said that while I might think her knowledge of Romany was limited, it was still much better than any other Gypsy on the Border or even in all of Scotland; and as for the Nokkums, none in the Green knew even half a dozen words of Romany, though they cherished the few they had and would rather give up their heart’s blood than share them with a stranger.
“Unless,” said I, “they found the stranger knew more than themselves.”
“Unless,” I said, “they realized the stranger knew more than they did.”
“That would make no difference with them,” said the queen, “though it has made a great deal of difference with me. They would merely turn up their noses, and say they had no Gaelic. You would not find them so communicative as me; the Nokkums, in general, are a dour set, sir.”
"That wouldn't matter to them," said the queen, "even though it's made a big difference for me. They would just turn their noses up and say they didn't speak Gaelic. You wouldn't find them as open as I am; the Nokkums, on the whole, are a pretty grumpy bunch, sir."
Before quitting the subject of language it is but right to say that though she did not know much Gypsy, and used cant and Gaelic terms, she possessed several words unknown to the English Romany, but which are of the true Gypsy order. Amongst them was the word tirrehi, or tirrehai, signifying shoes or boots, which I had heard in Spain and in the east of Europe. Another was calches, a Wallachian word signifying trousers. Moreover, she gave the right pronunciation to the word which denotes a man not of Gypsy blood, saying gajo, and not gorgio, as the English Gypsies do. After all, her knowledge of Gentle Romany was not altogether to be sneezed at.
Before leaving the topic of language, it’s only fair to mention that even though she didn’t know much Gypsy and used slang and Gaelic terms, she had several words unknown to English Romany that are truly of the Gypsy dialect. Among them was the word tirrehi, or tirrehai, meaning shoes or boots, which I had heard in Spain and Eastern Europe. Another was calches, a Wallachian word meaning trousers. Additionally, she pronounced the word for a man who isn’t of Gypsy descent correctly, saying gajo instead of gorgio, as the English Gypsies do. Overall, her knowledge of Gentle Romany was certainly worth noting.
Ceasing to talk to her about words, I began to p. 267question her about the Faas. She said that a great number of the Faas had come in the old time to Yetholm, and settled down there, and that her own forefathers had always been the principal people among them. I asked her if she remembered her grandfather, old Will Faa, and received for answer that she remembered him very well, and that I put her very much in mind of him, being a tall, lusty man, like himself, and having a skellying look with the left eye, just like him. I asked her if she had not seen queer folks at Yetholm in her grandfather’s time. “Dosta dosta,” said she; “plenty, plenty of queer folk I saw at Yetholm in my grandfather’s time, and plenty I have seen since, and not the least queer is he who is now asking me questions.” “Did you ever see Piper Allen?” said I; “he was a great friend of your grandfather’s.” “I never saw him,” she replied; “but I have often heard of him. He married one of our people.” “He did so,” said I, “and the marriage-feast was held on the Green just behind us. He got a good, clever wife, and she got a bad, rascally husband. One night, after taking an affectionate farewell of her, he left her on an expedition, with plenty of money in his pocket, which he had obtained from her, and which she had procured by her dexterity. After going about four miles he bethought himself that she had still some money, and returning crept up to the room in which she lay asleep, and stole her pocket, in which were eight guineas; then slunk away, and never returned, leaving her in poverty, from which she never recovered.” I then mentioned Madge Gordon, at one time the Gypsy queen of the Border, p. 268who used, magnificently dressed, to ride about on a pony shod with silver, inquiring if she had ever seen her. She said she had frequently seen Madge Faa, for that was her name, and not Gordon; but that when she knew her, all her magnificence, beauty, and royalty had left her; for she was then a poor, poverty-stricken old woman, just able with a pipkin in her hand to totter to the well on the Green for water. Then with much nodding, winking, and skellying, I began to talk about Drabbing bawlor, dooking gryes, cauring, and hokking, and asked if them ’ere things were ever done by the Nokkums: and received for answer that she believed such things were occasionally done, not by the Nokkums, but by other Gypsies, with whom her people had no connection.
Ceasing to talk to her about words, I began to p. 267ask her about the Faas. She said that a large number of the Faas had come to Yetholm in ancient times and settled down there, and that her own ancestors had always been the main people among them. I asked her if she remembered her grandfather, old Will Faa, and she replied that she remembered him very well, and that I reminded her a lot of him, being a tall, strong man like him, and having a squint in my left eye, just like him. I asked her if she had seen any strange people at Yetholm during her grandfather’s time. “Dosta dosta,” she said; “I saw plenty of strange folk at Yetholm in my grandfather’s time, and I’ve seen plenty since, and the least strange of all is the one who is now asking me questions.” “Did you ever see Piper Allen?” I asked; “he was a great friend of your grandfather’s.” “I never saw him,” she replied; “but I’ve heard about him a lot. He married one of our people.” “He did,” I said, “and the wedding feast was held on the Green just behind us. He got a good, clever wife, and she got a bad, deceitful husband. One night, after saying an affectionate goodbye to her, he left her on a journey, with plenty of money in his pocket that he got from her, which she had earned through her skills. After going about four miles, he remembered that she still had some money, so he came back, sneaked into the room where she was sleeping, and stole her pocket, which had eight guineas in it; then he slinked away and never came back, leaving her in poverty from which she never recovered.” I then mentioned Madge Gordon, once the Gypsy queen of the Border, p. 268who used to ride around magnificently dressed on a pony with silver shoes, asking if she had ever seen her. She said she had often seen Madge Faa, for that was her name, not Gordon; but that when she knew her, all her splendor, beauty, and royal presence had left her; because she was then a poor, destitute old woman, barely able to shuffle to the well on the Green for water with a pot in her hand. Then, with much nodding, winking, and squinting, I started to talk about Drabbing bawlor, dooking gryes, cauring, and hokking, and asked if those things were ever done by the Nokkums: and she replied that she believed such things were occasionally done, not by the Nokkums, but by other Gypsies, with whom her people had no connection.
Observing her eyeing me rather suspiciously, I changed the subject; asking her if she had travelled much about. She told me she had, and that she had visited most parts of Scotland, and seen a good bit of the northern part of England.
Observing her looking at me quite suspiciously, I changed the subject and asked her if she had traveled much. She told me she had, and that she had visited most of Scotland and seen quite a bit of northern England.
“Did you travel alone?” said I.
“Did you travel by yourself?” I asked.
“No,” said she; “when I travelled in Scotland I was with some of my own people, and in England with the Lees and Bosvils.”
“No,” she said. “When I traveled in Scotland, I was with some of my own people, and in England with the Lees and Bosvils.”
“Old acquaintances of mine,” said I; “why only the other day I was with them at Fairlop Fair, in the Wesh.”
“Old friends of mine,” I said; “just the other day I was with them at Fairlop Fair, in the Wesh.”
“I frequently heard them talk of Epping Forest,” said the Gypsy; “a nice place, is it not?”
“I often heard them talk about Epping Forest,” said the Gypsy; “it’s a lovely place, isn’t it?”
“The loveliest forest in the world!” said I. “Not equal to what it was, but still the loveliest forest in the world, and the pleasantest, especially in summer; for then it is thronged with grand p. 269company, and the nightingales, and cuckoos, and Romany chals and chies. As for Romany-chals there is not such a place for them in the whole world as the Forest. Them that wants to see Romany-chals should go to the Forest, especially to the Bald-faced Hind on the hill above Fairlop, on the day of Fairlop Fair. It is their trysting-place, as you would say, and there they musters from all parts of England, and there they whoops, dances, and plays; keeping some order nevertheless, because the Rye of all the Romans is in the house, seated behind the door:—
“The most beautiful forest in the world!” I said. “It may not be what it once was, but it’s still the most beautiful forest in the world, and the most enjoyable, especially in summer; because then it’s filled with wonderful company, and the nightingales, and cuckoos, and Romany boys and girls. There’s no better place for Romany people anywhere than the Forest. If you want to see Romany people, you should go to the Forest, especially to the Bald-faced Hind on the hill above Fairlop, on Fairlop Fair day. It’s their meeting place, as you might say, and they gather from all over England, and there they shout, dance, and play; still keeping some order, though, because the Rye of all the Romans is in the house, sitting behind the door:—
Romany Chalor
Anglo the wuddur
Mistos are boshing;
Mande beshello
Innar the wuddur
Shooning the boshipen.”
Romany Chalor
Anglo the water
Mistakes are crashing;
I tell you
In the water
Shining the boats.”
Roman lads
Before the door
Bravely fiddle;
Here I sit
Within the door
And hear them fiddle.
Roman lads
Before the door
Boldly play their fiddles;
Here I sit
Inside the door
And listen to them play.
“I wish I knew as much Romany as you, sir,” said the Gypsy. “Why, I never heard so much Romany before in all my life.”
“I wish I knew as much Romany as you do, sir,” said the Gypsy. “Honestly, I’ve never heard so much Romany before in my entire life.”
She was rather a small woman, apparently between sixty and seventy, with intelligent and rather delicate features. Her complexion was darker than that of the other female; but she had the same kind of blue eyes. The room in which we were seated was rather long, and tolerably p. 270high. In the wall, on the side which fronted the windows which looked out upon the Green, were oblong holes for beds, like those seen in the sides of a cabin. There was nothing of squalor or poverty about the place.
She was a petite woman, seemingly between sixty and seventy, with sharp and somewhat fragile features. Her skin tone was darker than the other woman’s; however, she had the same kind of blue eyes. The room we were in was fairly long and reasonably p. 270high. On the wall facing the windows looking out onto the Green, there were rectangular openings for beds, similar to those found in a cabin. There was no sign of dirt or poverty in the place.
Wishing to know her age, I inquired of her what it was. She looked angry, and said she did not know.
Wishing to know her age, I asked her what it was. She looked angry and said she didn't know.
“Are you forty-nine?” said I, with a terrible voice, and a yet more terrible look.
“Are you forty-nine?” I asked in a harsh voice, with an even more frightening expression.
“More,” said she, with a smile; “I am sixty-eight.”
“More,” she said with a smile, “I’m sixty-eight.”
There was something of the gentlewoman in her: on my offering her money she refused to take it, saying that she did not want it, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I persuaded her to accept a trifle, with which, she said, she would buy herself some tea.
There was something refined about her: when I offered her money, she turned it down, saying she didn’t want it. It took a lot of effort for me to convince her to take a small amount, which she said she would use to buy herself some tea.
But withal there was hukni in her, and by that she proved her Gypsy blood. I asked her if she would be at home on the following day, for in that case I would call and have some more talk with her, and received for answer that she would be at home and delighted to see me. On going, however, on the following day, which was Sunday, I found the garden-gate locked and the window-shutters up, plainly denoting that there was nobody at home.
But still, there was something mysterious about her, which showed her Gypsy heritage. I asked her if she'd be home the next day because I wanted to come by and talk more, and she replied that she would be home and would be happy to see me. However, when I went by the next day, which was Sunday, I found the garden gate locked and the window shutters closed, clearly indicating that no one was home.
Seeing some men lying on the hill, a little way above, who appeared to be observing me, I went up to them for the purpose of making inquiries. They were all young men, and decently though coarsely dressed. None wore the Scottish cap or bonnet, but all the hat of England. Their countenances p. 271were rather dark, but had nothing of the vivacious expression observable in the Gypsy face, but much of the dogged, sullen look which makes the countenances of the generality of the Irish who inhabit London and some other of the large English towns so disagreeable. They were lying on their bellies, occasionally kicking their heels into the air. I greeted them civilly, but received no salutation in return.
Seeing some guys lying on the hill a little ways up, who seemed to be watching me, I approached them to ask some questions. They were all young men, dressed reasonably well but in rough clothing. None of them wore the Scottish cap or bonnet; instead, they all had English hats on. Their faces were fairly dark, lacking the lively expression found in Gypsy features, and instead showed much of the stubborn and moody look that makes the faces of most of the Irish living in London and other big English towns so uninviting. They were lying on their stomachs, occasionally kicking their heels up in the air. I greeted them politely, but received no response in return.
“Is So-and-so at home?” said I.
"Is So-and-so home?" I asked.
“No,” said one, who, though seemingly the eldest of the party, could not have been more than three-and-twenty years of age; “she is gone out.”
“No,” said one, who, although he appeared to be the oldest of the group, couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old; “she has gone out.”
“Is she gone far?” said I.
“Has she gone far?” I asked.
“No,” said the speaker, kicking up his heels.
“No,” said the speaker, kicking up his heels.
“Where is she gone to?”
“Where did she go?”
“She’s gone to Cauldstrame.”
"She's gone to Cauldstrame."
“How far is that?”
“What's the distance?”
“Just thirteen miles.”
"Only thirteen miles."
“Will she be at home to-day?”
“Is she home today?”
“She may, or she may not.”
“She might, or she might not.”
“Are you of her people?” said I.
“Are you from her people?” I asked.
“No-h,” said the fellow, slowly drawing out the word.
“Nope,” said the guy, stretching out the word.
“Can you speak Irish?”
“Do you speak Irish?”
“No-h; I can’t speak Irish,” said the fellow, tossing up his nose, and then flinging up his heels.
“Nope; I can’t speak Irish,” said the guy, turning up his nose, and then kicking up his heels.
“You know what arragod is?” said I.
“You know what arragod is?” I asked.
“No-h!”
“No way!”
“But you know what ruppy is?” said I; and thereupon I winked and nodded.
“But do you know what ruppy is?” I said, and then I winked and nodded.
“No-h;” and then up went the nose, and subsequently the heels.
“Nope;” and then the nose went up, and after that, the heels went up too.
p. 272“Good day,” said I; and turned away; I received no counter-salutation; but, as I went down the hill, there was none of the shouting and laughter which generally follow a discomfited party. They were a hard, sullen, cautious set, in whom a few drops of Gypsy blood were mixed with some Scottish and a much larger quantity of low Irish. Between them and their queen a striking difference was observable. In her there was both fun and cordiality; in them not the slightest appearance of either. What was the cause of this disparity? The reason was they were neither the children nor the grandchildren of real Gypsies, but only the remote descendants, whereas she was the granddaughter of two genuine Gypsies, old Will Faa and his wife, whose daughter was her mother; so that she might be considered all but a thorough Gypsy; for being by her mother’s side a Gypsy, she was of course much more so than she would have been had she sprung from a Gypsy father and a Gentile mother; the qualities of a child, both mental and bodily, depending much less on the father than on the mother. Had her father been a Faa, instead of her mother, I should probably never have heard from her lips a single word of Romany, but found her as sullen and inductile as the Nokkums on the Green, whom it was of little more use questioning than so many stones.
p. 272“Good day,” I said, and turned away; I didn’t get a response. But as I walked down the hill, there was none of the shouting and laughter that usually follows a defeated group. They were a tough, gloomy, cautious bunch, with a mix of Gypsy blood, some Scottish, and a lot of low Irish. The difference between them and their queen was striking. She had both humor and warmth; they showed none of either. What caused this difference? The reason was that they were neither the children nor the grandchildren of true Gypsies, but just distant descendants. In contrast, she was the granddaughter of two genuine Gypsies, old Will Faa and his wife, whose daughter was her mother; so she could be seen as almost a full Gypsy. Since her mother was a Gypsy, she was certainly more so than if her father had been a Gypsy and her mother Gentile; a child's traits, both mental and physical, rely much more on the mother than the father. If her father had been a Faa instead of her mother, I probably would never have heard her speak a word of Romany, and she would have been as sullen and unyielding as the Nokkums on the Green, whom it was nearly useless to question, much like stones.
Nevertheless, she had played me the hukni, and that was not very agreeable; so I determined to be even with her, and by some means or other to see her again. Hearing that on the next day, which was Monday, a great fair was to be held in the neighbourhood of Kelso, I determined to go p. 273thither, knowing that the likeliest place in all the world to find a Gypsy at is a fair; so I went to the grand cattle-fair of St. George, held near the ruined castle of Roxburgh, in a lovely meadow not far from the junction of the Teviot and Tweed; and there sure enough, on my third saunter up and down, I met my Gypsy. We met in the most cordial manner—smirks and giggling on her side, smiles and nodding on mine. She was dressed respectably in black, and was holding the arm of a stout wench, dressed in garments of the same colour, who she said was her niece, and a rinkeni rakli. The girl whom she called rinkeni or handsome, but whom I did not consider handsome, had much of the appearance of one of those Irish girls, born in London, whom one so frequently sees carrying milk-pails about the streets of the metropolis. By the bye, how is it that the children born in England of Irish parents account themselves Irish and not English, whilst the children born in Ireland of English parents call themselves not English but Irish? Is it because there is ten times more nationality in Irish blood than in English? After the smirks, smiles, and salutations were over, I inquired whether there were many Gypsies in the fair. “Plenty,” said she, “plenty Tates, Andersons, Reeds, and many others. That woman is an Anderson—yonder is a Tate,” said she, pointing to two common-looking females. “Have they much Romany?” said I. “No,” said she, “scarcely a word.” “I think I shall go and speak to them,” said I. “Don’t,” said she; “they would only be uncivil to you. Moreover, they have nothing of that kind—on the word of a rawnie they have not.”
Nevertheless, she had played me the hukni, and that wasn't very pleasant, so I decided to get back at her and find a way to see her again. Hearing that there would be a big fair near Kelso the next day, which was Monday, I planned to go p. 273 there, knowing that a fair is the best place to find a Gypsy; so I headed to the grand cattle fair of St. George, held near the ruined castle of Roxburgh, in a beautiful meadow not far from where the Teviot and Tweed rivers meet. Sure enough, on my third stroll back and forth, I bumped into my Gypsy. We greeted each other warmly—she was smirking and giggling while I smiled and nodded. She was dressed neatly in black and was holding the arm of a sturdy girl also in black, whom she claimed was her niece, a rinkeni rakli. The girl she called rinkeni or pretty, though I didn’t find her attractive, had a look reminiscent of those Irish girls born in London, who you often see carrying milk pails around the city. By the way, why do children born in England to Irish parents consider themselves Irish and not English, while children born in Ireland to English parents call themselves Irish rather than English? Is it because there is much more of a sense of nationality in Irish blood than in English? After the smirks, smiles, and greetings were finished, I asked her if there were many Gypsies at the fair. “Plenty,” she replied, “plenty of Tates, Andersons, Reeds, and many others. That woman is an Anderson—over there is a Tate,” she said, pointing to two plain-looking women. “Do they speak much Romany?” I asked. “No,” she said, “hardly a word.” “I think I’ll go and talk to them,” I said. “Don’t,” she warned; “they would just be rude to you. Besides, they don’t have anything of that sort—on the word of a rawnie they don’t.”
p. 274I looked in her eyes; there was nothing of hukni in them, so I shook her by the hand; and through rain and mist, for the day was a wretched one, trudged away to Dryburgh to pay my respects at the tomb of Walter Scott, a man with whose principles I have no sympathy, but for whose genius I have always entertained the most intense admiration.
p. 274I looked into her eyes; there was no trace of hukni in them, so I shook her hand. Despite the rain and mist, as it was a miserable day, I walked away to Dryburgh to pay my respects at Walter Scott's tomb, a man whose principles I don’t agree with, but whose genius I have always deeply admired.
FOOTNOTES
[11a] A Christian.
A Christian.
[11b] A fox.
A fox.
[174] “Merripen” means life, and likewise death; even as “collico” means to-morrow as well as yesterday, and perhaps “sorlo,” evening as well as morning.
[174] “Merripen” means life, and also death; just as “collico” means tomorrow as well as yesterday, and maybe “sorlo,” evening as well as morning.
[247a] A Black Lovel.
A Black Lovel.
[247b] Going a-tinkering.
[247c] I’ll show you about, brother! I’m selling skewers.
[247c] I’ll show you what’s up, brother! I’m selling skewers.
[259] A cup of good ale.
A mug of craft beer.
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