The Muleteers of Granada

O the joys of our evening posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young muleteers of Granada,
Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry that even the slumbers,
That round us hung, seem gone:
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
Again beguile them on.
O the joys of our merry posada,
Where, resting at close of day,
We, young muleteers of Granada,
Thus sing the gay moments away.

Then as each to his loved sultana
In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana
Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
Again we're up and gone, —
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
Beguiles the rough way on.
0, the joys, etc.