Next to me lives Don Henriquez,
He whom folk "the beauty" call;
Neighborly our rooms are parted
Only by a single wall.
Salamanca's ladies flutter
When he strides along the street,
Clinking spurs, mustachoes twirling,
And with hounds about his feet.
But in quiet hours of evening
He will sit at home apart,
His guitar between his fingers,
And sweet dreams within his heart.
Then he smites the chords with passion,
All at once begins to strum.
Ah, like squalling cats his scrapings,
Toll-de-roll and toodle-dum!