Horny shepherds’ song within a song

Transhumance is in the air, so here’s a smutty song from a commie from Zaragoza:

Los pastores se van, se van,
Los pastores lloran, lloran:
¡ay de mí, pobre pastora!
¿con quién follarás tú ahora?

Rejigged:

The shepherds are going, they’re going again,
The shepherds are weeping, they’re wailing this strain:
“Alas, alack, oh Phyllis my dear,
Who will you fuck now you’re in the clear?”

What the shepherds will get up to is just as unpredictable. The mountains here are quieter than 200 years ago, when the local rector apparently threatened to excommunicate the entire village if they didn’t prevent young girls from witnessing and imitating the beasts at work in springtime, but there’s still the odd hint of lust in the hedgerows:


Lonely shepherdess

[
A brief inspection of Corde reveals this verse in another form, credited by Rafael Alberti to the cowherds of Luarca, Asturias:

Los vaqueiros vanse, vanse,
Los vaqueiros lloran, lloran,
¡ay de mí, pobre, cuitado,
con quién dormiré yo ahora!

]

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Comments

  1. There’s quite a good description of the pleasures of human-ovine intercourse in the second volume of Yannis Ritsos’s Iconography of Anonymous Saints, which is a beautiful neglected Greek classic.

  2. In praise of the British sheep:

    No foreign broil our common good annoys,
    Our country’s product all our art employs;
    Our fleecy flocks abound in every vale,
    Our bleating lambs proclaim the joyful tale.
    So let not Spain with us attempt to vie,
    Nor India’s wealth pretend to soar so high;
    Nor Jason pride him in his Colchian spoil,
    By hardships gain’d, and enterprising toil,
    Since Britons all with ease attain the prize,
    And every hill resounds with golden cries.
    To celebrate our founder’s great renown
    Our shepherd and our shepherdess we crown;
    For England’s commerce, and for George’s sway,
    Each loyal subject give a loud HUZZA.

    HUZZA!

    From Hone’s Every-Day Book http://www.uab.edu/english/hone/etexts/edb/day-pages/034-february03.html

  3. “St. Blase lived in a cave, whither wild beasts came daily to visit him, and be cured by him”. Hmm, “cured”.

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