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Here she comes in her palanquin |
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On the back of an elephant |
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On a bed made of linen and sequins and silk |
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All astride on her father's line |
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With the king and his concubines |
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And her nurse, with her pitchers of liquors and milk |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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Among five score pachyderm |
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Each canopied and passengered |
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Sit the duke and the duchess's luscious young girls |
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Within sight of the baroness |
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Seething spite for this lithe largesse |
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By her side sits the baron her barrenness barbs her |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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A phalanx on camel back |
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Thirty ranks on a forward tack |
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Followed close, their shiny bright standards a-waving |
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While behind, in their coach-and-fours |
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Ride the wives of the king of Moors |
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And the veiled young virgin, the prince's betrothed |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And as she sits upon her place |
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Her innocence laid on her face |
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From all atop the parapets blow a multitude of coronets |
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Melodies rhapsodical and fair |
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And all our hearts afire, the sky ablaze with cannon fire |
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We all raise our voices to the air, to the air |
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And above all this fol-de-rol |
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On a bed made of chaparral |
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She is laid, a coronal placed on her brow |
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And the babe, all in slumber dreams |
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Of a place, filled with quiet streams |
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And the lake, where her cradle was pulled from the water |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
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And we'll all come praise the Infanta |
