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.