PABLO PUIG is a family man,
A Catholic staunch and a Catalan.
Her Majesty's mails he hath to drive.
His oaths are many, his horses five.
Alerte, caballitos!
Master is he of a clumsy craft,
Cranky forward and cranky aft;
A thing of a weird and ogglesome kind,
Cab in the front and 'bus behind.
Alerte, caballitos!
Yet Pablo Puig in his inmost soul
Is fond of his calling, upon the whole;
Many might think it infra dig.,
But there's little of pride in Pablo Puig.
Alerte, caballitos!
His visage is dark, his garb grotesque,
And he wears a touch of the picturesque,
A certain chic which possibly springs
From his horror of soap and of such-like things.
Alerte, caballitos!
To him there is little or no romance
In the mountain border of Spain and France;
But how he would wonder and stare, poor man,
At a moment's view of a Pickford's van.
Alerte, caballitos!