Storms, tornadoes, power outages, no a.m. coffee, cat burials, have all sapped my strength so instead of providing prose and lyrics of my own, I offer these from some old friends of mine:
There's a song in the air,
But the fair senorita
doesn't seem to care
for the song in the air.
So I'll sing to my mule
if you're sure she won't think that
I am just a fool
serenading a mule.
Amigo mio, does she not have a dainty bray?
She listens carefully to each little word we play.
La bella Senorita?
Si, si, mi muchachito,
She'd love to sing it too if only she knew the way.
But try as she may,
in her voice there's a flaw!
And all that the lady can say
There's a light in her eye,
Tho' she may try to hide it,
She cannot deny,
there's a light in her eye.
Oh! the charm of her smile
so beguiles all who see her
that they'd ride a mile
for the charm of her smile.
Amigo mio, is she listenin' to my song?
No, no, mi muchachito, how could you be so wrong?
La bella Senorita?
Si, Si, la senorita,
If she knew all the words,
Well, maybe she'd sing along . . .
Her face is a dream
like an angel I saw!
But all that my darlin' can scream
Senorita donkey sita, not so fleet as a mosquito,
but so sweet like my Chiquita,
you're the one for me.
You're . . . the one . . . for me!
Donkey Serenade by Rudolf Friml and Herbert Stothart,
with lyrics by Robert Wright and George Forest , 1937
(And, with apologies to Bill):
Is it but this,--a tardiness in nature
Which often leaves the history unspoke
That it intends to do? My lords......,
What say you to the lady? Love's not love
When it is mingled with regards that stand
Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?
She is herself a dowry.
Fairest Mule, that art most rich, being poor;
Most choice, forsaken; and most loved, despised!
Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:
Be it lawful I take up what's cast away.
Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect
My love should kindle to inflamed respect.
Thy dowerless daughter,...thrown to my chance,
Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair Lone Tree:
Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy
Can buy this unprized precious maid of me.
Bid them farewell, Mule, though unkind:
Thou losest here, a better where to find.