THE  SPANISH  LADY   

There's a traditional Irish song called The Spanish Lady which goes like this:

As I came down through Dublin city
At the hour of twelve at night
Who should I spy but a Spanish lady
Washing her feet by candlelight   

First she washed them, then she dried them
Over a fire of amber coals
In all my life I ne'er did see
A maid so sweet about the soul

Whack for the toora loora laddy
Whack for the toora loora lay
Whack for the toora loora laddy
Whack for the toora loora lay

(I have no idea what this last bit means but, knowing the Irish, I'm sure it's quite illegal and probably obscene.) 













Clearly the song tells the story of a man on his way home at midnight who sees a Spanish woman washing her feet, and he's so taken by the sight that he looks in her window to admire her.  In other words, he's a pervert.  The song doesn't say what happens when this guy gets home, but I would imagine the conversation went something like this:

Wife:          Where have you been until this hour?

Man:           I was having a few pints with the lads

Wife:          The pub closed an hour ago

Man:           I know.  I decided to walk home because it's such a lovely night

Wife:          (sniffing)  What's that smell?  Is that amber coals?  Have you been looking in
                    the window of that Spanish tart again?

Man:           What Spanish tart?

Wife:          Don't give me "What Spanish tart".  How many Spanish women live around here?
                   The one up the road who's always washing her feet at all hours.  THAT Spanish tart

Man:           What's wrong with her always washing her feet?  At least her feet are clean
                    unlike some people I could mention

Wife:          Aha!  So you HAVE been peeping in at her, ya dirty bugger!

Man:           I wasn't peeping in the window!  The curtains were open and I just noticed her
                   as I was walking by on account of she had candles lit

Wife:          Who the hell washes their feet with candles lit?  Why can't she turn on the
                   bloody light like a normal person?  And what is she doing washing her feet
                   at midnight on a Friday night?

Man:           Maybe it's a Spanish custom

Wife:          I'll give ya an Irish custom if I catch ya looking in her window again.  I'll
                   kick the arse off ya!


Well, our story would end there were it not for the fact that, according to the song, the following Friday this happened:

As I came back through Dublin city
At the hour of half past eight
Who should I spy but the Spanish lady
Brushing her hair in the broad daylight

Oh dear...

Wife:          I thought you said you were just going out for a few minutes to help Mick
                   O'Brien milk his cows

Man:           I was!  I spent an hour milking one cow and getting nothing and then Mick
                   told me I was milking the bull!

Wife:          What's that on your coat?

Man:           It must be a cow hair

Wife:          Since when did cows have long, straight black hair?  (leaning in and sniffing)
                   Jesus Christ!  That hair smells like amber coals!  You've been gawking at that
                   Spanish bint again, haven't ya?  Ya dirty little git!

Man:           I wasn't gawking!  Sure her house is on me way home!

Wife:          That doesn't mean you should be peeping in her window like a peeping Tom
                   looking at her washing her feet!

Man:          She wasn't washing her feet!  She was brushing her hair!  Oh, fuck...

Wife:         Let me at ya, ya dirty pervert!  I'll brush your hair with this poker!

(Sounds of pots and pans being thrown around - screaming - sound of man locking himself into the bathroom and shoes bouncing off the outside of the door.) 

We might never know the outcome of this saga as there are no more verses.  But fear not!  I have taken it upon myself to write how I think the rest of the song would go.

Fast forward to the following Friday:

As I walked home through Dublin city
Sneaking quiet as a mouse
Who should I meet but the lady's husband
Waiting for me outside their house

First he kicked me, then he punched me
Pummeled me about the head
In all my life I ne'er did see
Such stars - I thought that I was dead   

He whacked my toora loora laddy
Whacked my toora loora lay
He whacked my toora loora laddy
I could barely limp away


As I crawled home in Dublin city
On that very self same night
Who should I meet but the little missus
Giving me a woeful fright

First she cuffed me, then she smacked me
Called me names I can't repeat
I swear I never more will watch
A woman rinsing off her feet

She whacked my toora loora laddy
Whacked my toora loora lay
She whacked my toora loora laddy
It's still crooked to this day











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