THE GIPSY- CAMP. 127 



Weep on, ye sweet bell-folded flowers, 



I love those tears ye shed ; 

 It is not dew that gems your eyes ; 



O, no ! ye know she's dead; 

 Altho' ye sigh not deep like me, 



Ye silently instil 

 A lesson of sad speechless grief 



I read it and turn chill. 



Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn, 



Near thee we last did part, 

 Her last deep sigh was near thy shade 



But thou wilt break my heart. 

 I shiver 'neath the breath of night, 



That pipes so cold and shrill ; 

 Wave on, thou dark green aged thorn, 



Thy shadow turns me chill. 



As the last words trembled on my tongue, the old man fell from 

 his seat. His iron frame seemed convulsed -with internal agony; his 

 eyes glared wildly on all around his hour had come ! te Ha, ha !" 

 said he ," are they here ? stay, Mary Nash, do not frown so wait ! 

 wait ! I knew ye would come ! Abigail ! Israel ! (they bent over 

 him) bury me on on the heath it's night the tree's shadow, 

 the fatal pine, not on the other side. They lie there at twelve. 



O, God ! for " He gave another deep gasp, and all was over the 



old man had gone to his last account. Lavina lay senseless before the 

 camp fire; all was tumult the dogs howled, and seemed conscious 

 he was no more. The children had arisen from their straw couches, 

 and mingled with the mournful group naked and sorrowful. 



Daylight already crimsoned the east, as Lavina and I took our 

 departure from this melancholy scene. We promised to be at the 

 old man's interment before midnight, and wandered with aching 

 hearts from the gipsies' camp. 



I arose about noon considerably refreshed, and bade the servant 

 call Lavina. While we were dining in the parlour of the inn, a 

 healthy-looking old farmer put up his horse and came in. 



" Well, what news ?" said my inquisitive host/' 



" Nothing very particular," replied the farmer ; " as I rode past 

 the wood-end this morning, I saw two gipsies very busy digging a 

 grave." 



" Hey !" exclaimed my host, laying down his knife and fork, and 

 staring in astonishment, " hey ! why thev been modering sumbody." 



"Not exactly so, neither/' said the farmer; "Black Boswell's 

 dead." 



" Black Boswell dead !" echoed mine host and hostess, " why you 

 dunt say su ?" 



" I have said so/' replied the farmer, smiling ; " dead or not, 

 they're going to bury him upon suspicion." 



Mine host heard not this last remark ; he sat looking with vacant 

 eye upon his plate, and kept repeating in various tones " Black 

 Boswell dead, whoiver thote he wud die !" 



The waiting-maid, who came in during the consternation which the 



