A Foolish Tragedy.

In the capital of Valladolid

There lived a highborn maiden

In a white house in a steep street

With green doors and shutters,

Her lips were like scarlet poppies

And her hair like a black waterfall,

And behind her ear she wore

A flower of red geranium.

And her Spanish lover sighed

And in his love he cried,

“Heaven were nearer

If she were dearer,

She is the most wonderful and beautiful thing

In the capital of Valladolid.

“If I could persuade her father,

That fierce and rich old Councillor,

Not to despise my suit

But let me speak to his daughter,

I would esteem it more

Than the rank of a Grandee of Spain,

A cargo of spices from Java

Or a galleon laden with silver.”

Under a brazen crucifix

And the outstretched arms of our Saviour

( And over her ivory shoulder

Her black hair poured like a waterfall )

To Mary, Mother of Heaven,

Prayed the foolish maiden,

“Mary, send me a lover,

Young and tender and handsome.”

It chanced on a day of festival

In the capital of Valladolid

That their eyes met at a crossing

And their two souls rushed together.

By the greed of a bought duenna

And the interchange of love-notes

And the help of a hempen ladder

They arranged a meeting at midnight.

Her father, the rich old Councillor,

Looked out of a second-floor window

And passed his sword thro’ the body

Of one who climbed up a ladder.

His fingers loosed the rungs

And down he crashed to the pavement.

And out of his handsome body

His startled spirit departed.

And the Spanish maiden cried

And moaned until she died,

“My lover dead,

My honour sped.”

So ended a foolish tragedy

In the capital of Valladolid.