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!