Early in the morn I started
With Lascaro on our journey
Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
So they call the bridge which leadeth
Out of France and into Spain,
To the land of west barbarians,
Who’re a thousand years behind us,—
Yes, a thousand years behind us
In all modern civ’lisation;
My barbarians to the eastward
But a hundred years behind are.
Slowly, almost trembling, left I
France’s sacred territory,
Blessèd fatherland of freedom
And the women that I love!
On the middle of the bridge
A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry
Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,
Misery in his eyes was lurking.
An old crazy mandoline
With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;
Shrill the discord which re-echoed
From the rocks, as in derision.
Oftentimes his figure bent he
Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,
Tinkling harder then than ever,
While the following words he sang:
“In the middle of my bosom
“Stands a little golden table;
“Round the little golden table
“Stand four little golden chairs.
“On the golden chairs are sitting
“Little ladies, golden arrows
“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,
“But ’tis only Clara wins.
“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;
“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,
“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”