Mambrù
Mambrú is gone to serve the king,
And comes no more by fall or spring.
We've looked until our eyes are dim.
Will no one give us word of him?
You'd know him for his mother's son
By peasant dress of Aragon.
You'd know him for my husband dear
By broidered kerchief on his spear.
The one I broider now is wet.
Oh, may I see him wear it yet!
And comes no more by fall or spring.
We've looked until our eyes are dim.
Will no one give us word of him?
You'd know him for his mother's son
By peasant dress of Aragon.
You'd know him for my husband dear
By broidered kerchief on his spear.
The one I broider now is wet.
Oh, may I see him wear it yet!
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