| |
| OH, never talk again to me | |
| Of northern climes and British ladies; | |
| It has not been your lot to see | |
| Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. | |
| Although her eyes be not of blue, | 5 |
| Nor fair her locks, like English lasses’, | |
| How far its own expressive hue | |
| The languid azure eye surpasses! | |
| |
| Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole | |
| The fire that through those silken lashes | 10 |
| In darkest glances seems to roll, | |
| From eyes that cannot hide their flashes; | |
| And as along her bosom steal | |
| In lengthened flow her raven tresses, | |
| You ’d swear each clustering lock could feel, | 15 |
| And curled to give her neck caresses. | |
| |
| Our English maids are long to woo, | |
| And frigid even in possession; | |
| And if their charms be fair to view, | |
| Their lips are slow at love’s confession; | 20 |
| But, born beneath a brighter sun, | |
| For love ordained the Spanish maid is, | |
| And who, when fondly, fairly won, | |
| Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz? | |
| |
| The Spanish maid is no coquette, | 25 |
| Nor joys to see a lover tremble; | |
| And if she love, or if she hate, | |
| Alike she knows not to dissemble. | |
| Her heart can ne’er be bought or sold— | |
| Howe’er it beats, it beats sincerely; | 30 |
| And, though it will not bend to gold, | |
| ’T will love you long, and love you dearly. | |
| |
| The Spanish girl that meets your love | |
| Ne’er taunts you with a mock denial; | |
| For every thought is bent to prove | 35 |
| Her passion in the hour of trial. | |
| When thronging foemen menace Spain, | |
| She dares the deed and shares the danger; | |
| And should her lover press the plain, | |
| She hurls the spear, her love’s avenger. | 40 |
| |
| And when, beneath the evening star, | |
| She mingles in the gay bolero; | |
| Or sings to her attuned guitar | |
| Of Christian knight or Moorish hero; | |
| Or counts her beads with fairy hand | 45 |
| Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper; | |
| Or joins devotion’s choral band | |
| To chant the sweet and hallowed vesper: | |
| |
| In each her charms the heart must move | |
| Of all who venture to behold her. | 50 |
| Then let no maids less fair reprove, | |
| Because her bosom is not colder; | |
| Through many a clime ’t is mine to roam | |
| Where many a soft and melting maid is, | |
| But none abroad, and few at home, | 55 |
| May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz. | |
| |
