2
Charcoal Woman.
"The little widow of good Count Laurel
Has no one left her for kiss or quarrel.
I want a sweetheart and find me none.
Charcoal women must bide alone.
3
Chorus."Poor little widow, so sweet thou art,
If there's no other to claim thy heart,
Take thy pick of us who stand
Ready to kiss thy sooty hand.
4
Chorus. "The charcoal woman, the charcoal woman,
Proud little black little charcoal woman,
Goes seeking up and seeking down
To find the Count of Cabratown.
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 worship 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 Tomás.
The least of all, they lost her.
Her father searched – alas!
A street above, a street below,
Street of San Tomás.
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 Mambrú" begins merrily, and soon saddens to a funereal pace.
"In Madrid was born a maiden – carabí!