"Both Lagartijo and Frascuelo
Swordsmen are of quality,
Since when they the bulls are slaying—
O damsel of my heart!
They do it with serenity.
Both Lagartijo and Frascuelo
Swordsmen are of quality."
But such evident ardor of feeling and such wealth of voice are breathed into these fragments that they become sufficient. The people supply from their imagination what is barely hinted in the lines. Under their impassive exteriors they preserve memories, associations, emotions of burning intensity, which throng to aid their enjoyment, as soon as the muffled strings begin to vibrate and syllables of love or sorrow are chanted. I recalled to a young and pretty Spanish lady one line,
"Pajarito, tu que vuelas."
She flushed, fire came to her eyes, and with clasped hands she murmured, "Oh, what a beautiful song it is!" Yet it contains only four lines. Here is a translation:
"Bird, little bird that wheelest
Through God's fair worlds in the sky,
Say if thou anywhere seest
A being more sad than I.
Bird, little bird that wheelest."
Some of these little compositions are roughly humorous, and others very grotesque, appearing to foreigners empty and ridiculous.