FANTOCHES.SCARAMOUCHE waves a threatening handTo Pulcinella, and they stand,Two shadows, black against the moon.The old doctor of Bologna priesFor simples with impassive eyes,And mutters o’er a magic rune.The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed,Glides slyly ’neath the trees, in questOf her bold pirate lover’s sail;Her pirate from the Spanish main,Whose passion thrills her in the painOf the loud languorous nightingale.
SCARAMOUCHE waves a threatening handTo Pulcinella, and they stand,Two shadows, black against the moon.
The old doctor of Bologna priesFor simples with impassive eyes,And mutters o’er a magic rune.
The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed,Glides slyly ’neath the trees, in questOf her bold pirate lover’s sail;
Her pirate from the Spanish main,Whose passion thrills her in the painOf the loud languorous nightingale.