seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,--
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I spoke,
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

"My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home,
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come:
I cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces--
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces."

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me?
Then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three;
And I'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde."

He lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree--
He bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three;
"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!"
And he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in.

Up rose the Moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals,
And caught Alphonzo Guzman in a twinkling by the heels:
She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,--
"Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's daughter!"

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo;
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Tololedo.
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell,
How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.

Don Fernando Gomersalez.
_From the Spanish of Astley's_.

Don Fernando Gomersalez! {7} basely have they borne thee down;
Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown;
Fetters have they bound upon thee--iron fetters, fast and sure;
Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor!

Long within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight,
For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might;
Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone,
Till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone.

On the twentieth day of August--'twas the feast of false Mahound--
Came the Moorish population from the neighbouring cities round;
There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing,
And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, {8} the King!

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at