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Rough, old meanie that he was, From spain came don Gorez Goz. As he cast a wary eye about A pretty lass espied this lout, He bought her--this Indian maid--For a cake of soap, a yard of braid, The grieving beauty fled with cause For tarnished braid indeed it was, Gorez pursued both hard and fast Until she climbed a tree at last, As Gorez followed her he leered. How those branches caught his beard! The beard remains, but Gorez has gorie And still the tale goes on and one, What an ominous warning it should be, To see Spanish Moss hang from a tree, A cake of soap and a yard of braid May be enough to win some maid. Look, Though, swain, and make thou sure The braid is clean, untarnished--pure! |
