For their food, they live on ryebread,
As delicious in its flavour
As if Ceres’ self had baked it
For her dear child Proserpina.
Oftentimes he also sends them
Quite a bowl-full of garbanzos,
And the youngsters in this manner
Learn that ’tis in Spain a Sunday.
Yet not always is it Sunday,
And garbanzos come not always,
And the upper huntsman treats them
To a banquet with his whip.
For this worthy upper huntsman,
Who is with the care entrusted
Of the pack of hounds, together
With the cage that holds the nephews,
Is the most unhappy husband
Of that acid Citronella
With the frill so white and plate-like,
Whom we saw to-day at table;
And she scolds so loud, that often
On the whip her husband seizes,
Hither hastens, and chastises
First the dogs, and then the children.
But the king is very angry
With his conduct, and commanded
That his nephews should in future
Never like the dogs be treated.
He will not entrust to any
Mercenary fist the duty
Of correcting them, but do it
With his own right hand henceforward.—
Suddenly stopp’d Don Diego,
For the castle Seneschal
Now approach’d us, and politely
Ask’d: Had we enjoy’d our dinner?—