Oh, the joys of our evening posada,

  Where, resting, at close of day,

We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

  Sit and sing the sunshine away;

So merry, that even the slumbers

  That round us hung seem gone;

Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers

  Again beguile them on.

    Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana

  In sleep still breathes the sigh,

The name of some black-eyed Tirana,

  Escapes our lips as we lie.

Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,

  Again we're up and gone—

While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle

  Beguiles the rough way on.

Oh the joys of our merry posada,

  Where, resting at close of day,

We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

  Thus sing the gay moments away.