Isabellita, do not pine Because the flowers fade away; If flowers hasten to decay Weep not, Isabellita mine. Little one, now close thine eves. Hark, the footsteps of the Moor! And she asks from door to door, Who may be the child who cries? When I was as small as thou And within my cradle lying, Angels came about me flying And they kissed me on my brow. Sleep, then, little baby, sleep: Sleep, nor cry again to-night, Lest the angels take to flight So as not to see thee weep. |