If you’ re sleeping, my dear,
Wake and open to me!
For the hour is at hand
When afar we must flee.
If your white feet are bare
Still no longer delay;
For deep are the waters
Which roll in our way.
The waters so deep
Of the Guadalquivír;
The hour is at hand,
We must wander, my dear.
’ Tis strange, he added, how our land, in truth,
As it goes Southward seems to turn to youth,
And with a softer sun all words are sung —
As things are warmed — into the Spanish tongue:
I’ ve given you a song, let’ s have another;
“Well, I know one,” I said, “which seems its brother,
Although, compared to yours, it’ s nearer zero,
In Spanish, Digas tu el marinero!”