Cribete, they have married her,
Cormesin's daughter fair;
She is still too little
To dress her own bright hair.

Love holds her close;
The love that may not hold her
Longs to enfold her.

Her husband rides away to war,
Until she shall be grown;
But when the war is over
He comes back to his own.

He stands a-knocking at the door:
“Open to me, my dear!”
His mother speaks, all weeping:
“Cribete is not here.

“The Moorish king came riding;
He stole Cribete and fled.”
“Give me a staff of willow,
And a cloak of red.”

And he has gone a-begging,
Clad like a poor pilgrim;
Till from her balcony Cribete
Leans and looks down on him.

She combs her hair with a fine gold comb,
In the palace of the Moor;
“Give charity, señora,
To a pilgrim poor.”

“I have no money, señor;
My home is far from here.”
And the Moorish king he listens
In the great garden, near.

“Give charity, señora,
To a pilgrim all forlorn;
If thou art not my wife to-night,
Thou wilt be to-morrow morn.”

He has robbed the royal stables;
The steed flies like the wind:
“Come back, come back to me, Cribete!”
Cries the Moorish king behind.

The bridge of Oviedo
Breaks ere their horse has passed:
“Maiden I took her from thee,
Maiden she 's thine at last.”

Love holds her close;
The love that may not hold her
Longs to enfold her.