Alerte, caballitos!
His visage is dark, his garb grotesque,
And he wears a touch of the picturesque,
A certain chic which possibly springs
From his horror of soap and of such-like things.
Alerte, caballitos!
To him there is little or no romance
In the mountain border of Spain and France;
But how he would wonder and stare, poor man,
At a moment's view of a Pickford's van.