And break his ugly ribs.'"
The dance for "Elisa of Mambrú" begins merrily, and soon saddens to a funereal pace.
"In Madrid was born a maiden—carabí!
Daughter of a general—carabí, hurí, hurá!"
The song goes on to tell of Elisa's beautiful hair, which her aunt dressed so gently for her with a golden comb and crystal curling-pins, and how Elisa died and was carried to church in an elegant coffin, and how a little bird used to perch upon her grave and chirp, pio, pio.
Mambrú himself is the pathetic hero of Spanish childhood. This Mambrú for whom the little ones from Aragon to Andalusia pipe so many simple elegies, the Mambrú sung by Trilby, is not the English Marlborough to them, but, be he lord or peasant, one of their very own.
"Mambrú is gone to serve the king,
And comes no more by fall or spring.
"We've looked until our eyes are dim.
Will no one give us word of him?