Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SPANISH BARBER, by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON Poet's Biography First Line: What sights abound the world around, let tourists live and learn Last Line: And, conscious of a triumph, said, servito, señor. Alternate Author Name(s): Egerton-warburton, R. E. Subject(s): Barbers; Beards; Spain | ||||||||
WHAT sights abound the world around, let tourists live and learn; And Brown and Jones and Robinson go visit each in turn: The battle-field at Waterloo, the bull-fight at Madrid, While some delight their names to write on Cheops' pyramid. Some tour to Tours, some roam to Rome, some trip to Tripoli; Still something strange, where'er they range, for travellers to see. To me no sight gave such delight as I at Seville felt When I stood before the very door where Figaro had dwelt. A fencing foil the Frenchman with dexterity can twist; Pre-eminent is England in the science of the fist; But with Spain no other nation in the universe can cope In expert manipulation of the shaving-brush and soap. My beard, when I reach'd Alicant, was like a currycomb, Or, "like a stubble-land new reap'd, it show'd at harvest-home;" With anxious step I wander'd till, suspended high in air, A brazen basin told me that the spot I sought was there. I thrust aside the curtain-veil that screens it from the street; The Barber bows, and beckons to a softly-cushion'd seat; Enfolds me in a napkin, white as snow on mountain top, And to and fro the blade revers'd glides glibly o'er the strop. A bungling British shaver would have seized me by the nose, Would have brush'd my lip with lather where no hair upon it grows, With shrug and screw and sacre-bleu at beard so overgrown, A Frenchman would have held my jaw, and not have held his own. My parch'd and thirsty beard an irrigation over flows, A saponaceous liquid sweetly perfum'd by the rose; His blade, as still he pass'd it and repass'd it o'er my chin, I felt as if a lightning-flash were playing on the skin! So skill'd within due limits still its keenness to confine, He touch'd not there a single hair beyond the shaving-line. How I wish'd it, when completed, how I wish'd it just begun, A work of art so delicately, exquisitely done! I felt as if my chin were iced when, penetrating through, The balmy air of morning on the shaven surface blew; He powder'd it, unnapkin'd it, and then he look'd me o'er; And, conscious of a triumph, said, Servito, Señor. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR AL-TAYIB SALIH by KHALED MATTAWA MESSAGES AS TRANSLATION by MICHAEL S. HARPER THE VALLEY OF THE FALLEN by CAROLYN KIZER ON GREDOS by MIGUEL DE UNAMUNO SPANISH SONNETS: 1 by JOHN UPDIKE SPANISH SONNETS: 5 by JOHN UPDIKE SPAIN, TAKE THIS CUP FROM ME by CESAR VALLEJO PAST AND PRESENT by ROWLAND EYLES EGERTON-WARBURTON |
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