Part 24 (1/2)
5.
_Charcoal Woman._ ”I would not marry the Count of Cabra.
Never will marry the Count of Cabra.
Count of Cabra! Oh, deary me!
I'll not have him,--_if you're not he!_”
Just such coquettish touches of Spanish spirit and maiden pride appear in many of the songs, as, for instance, in one of their counting-out carols, ”The Garden.”
”The garden of our house it is The funniest garden yet, For when it rains and rains and rains, The garden it is wet.
And now we bow, Skip back and then advance, For who know how to make a bow Know how to dance.
AB--C--AB--C DE--FG--HI--J.
If your wors.h.i.+p does not love me, Then a better body may.
AB--C--AB--C, KL--MN--OP--Q.
If you think you do not love me, I am sure I don't love you.”
Sometimes these dancing midgets lisp a song of worldly wisdom:--
”If any cadet With thee would go, Daughter, instantly Answer no.
For how can cadet, This side of Heaven, Keep a wife On his dollars seven?
”If any lieutenant Asks a caress, Daughter, instantly Answer yes.
For the lieutenant Who kisses thy hand May come to be A general grand.”
And, again, these babies may be heard giving warning that men betray.
”The daughters of Ceferino Went to walk--alas!
A street above, a street below, Street of San Tomas.
The least of all, they lost her.
Her father searched--alas!
A street above, a street below, Street of San Tomas.
And there he found her talking With a cavalier, who said, 'Come home with me, my darling, 'Tis you that I would wed.'
”Oh, have you seen the pear tree Upon my grandpa's lawn?
Its pears are sweet as honey, But when the pears are gone, A turtle-dove sits moaning, With blood upon her wings, Amid the highest branches, And this is what she sings: 'Ill fares the foolish maiden Who trusts a stranger's fibs.
She'd better take a cudgel And break his ugly ribs.'”
The dance for ”Elisa of Mambru” begins merrily, and soon saddens to a funereal pace.
”In Madrid was born a maiden--carabi!
Daughter of a general--carabi, huri, hura!”
The song goes on to tell of Elisa's beautiful hair, which her aunt dressed so gently for her with a golden comb and crystal curling-pins, and how Elisa died and was carried to church in an elegant coffin, and how a little bird used to perch upon her grave and chirp, _pio_, _pio_.
Mambru himself is the pathetic hero of Spanish childhood. This Mambru for whom the little ones from Aragon to Andalusia pipe so many simple elegies, the Mambru sung by Trilby, is not the English Marlborough to them, but, be he lord or peasant, one of their very own.
”Mambru is gone to serve the king, And comes no more by fall or spring.
”We've looked until our eyes are dim.
Will no one give us word of him?