O how from their fury shall I flee?
First Gip. (playing.) Down with your John-Dorados, my pigeon. Down with your John-Dorados, and let us make an end.
Gipsies at the forge sing.
Loud sang the Spanish cavalier,
And thus his ditty ran;
God send the gipsy lassie here,
And not the gipsy man.
First Gip. (playing.) There you are in your morocco!
Second Gip. One more game. The alcalde’s doves against the Padre Cura’s new moon.
First Gip. Have at you, Chirelin.