Donna Inez Woolfordinez!
Why those blushes on thy cheek?
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee,
He hath come thy love to seek!
Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee
He is rushing like a gale;
One foot on his coal-black's shoulders,
And the other on his tail!

Onward, onward, panting maiden!
He is faint, and fails, for now
By the feet he hangs suspended
From his glistening saddle-bow.
Down are gone both cap and feather,
Lance and gonfalon are down!
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet,
He has flung them to the Clown.

Faint and failing! Up he vaulteth,
Fresh as when he first began;
All in coat of bright vermilion,
'Quipped as Shaw, the Lifeguardsman;
Right and left his whizzing broadsword,
Like a sturdy flail, he throws;
Cutting out a path unto thee
Through imaginary foes.

Woolfordinez! speed thee onward!
He is hard upon thy track,--
Paralysed is Widdicombez,
Nor his whip can longer crack;
He has flung away his broadsword,
'Tis to clasp thee to his breast.
Onward!--see, he bares his bosom,
Tears away his scarlet vest;

Leaps from out his nether garments,
And his leathern stock unties--
As the flower of London's dustmen,
Now in swift pursuit he flies.
Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles,
O'er the buckle, heel and toe!
Flaps his hands in his side-pockets,
Winks to all the throng below!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Woolfordinez, peerless girl,
O'er the garters lightly bounding
From her steed with airy whirl!
Gomersalez, wild with passion,
Danger--all but her--forgets;
Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her,
Casting clouds of somersets!

Onward, onward rush the coursers;
Bright is Gomersalez' eye;
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez,
For his triumph sure is nigh!
Now his courser's flanks he lashes,
O'er his shoulder flings the rein,
And his feet aloft he tosses,
Holding stoutly by the mane!

Then, his feet once more regaining,
Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls,
And in graceful folds around him
A bespangled tunic falls.
Pinions from his heels are bursting,
His bright locks have pinions o'er them;
And the public see with rapture
Maia's nimble son before them.

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez!
For a panting god pursues;
And the chalk is very nearly
Rubbed from thy white satin shoes;
Every bosom throbs with terror,
You might hear a pin to drop;
All is hushed, save where a starting
Cork gives out a casual pop.

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