In a village of La Mancha, the name
of which I would not care to speak,
there lived not long since a squire
who kept a lance and shield, a lean
and a bony old nag, a greyhound for
coursing to complete his estate.

A stew with more of beef than lamb,
a cold salad on most of the nights,
scraps and squabbles on a Saturday,
some lentils on a Friday for shame,
and a young pigeon come each Sunday
ate up three quarters of his means.

The rest went on a fine black cloak
of good broadcloth, and breeches of
velvet for the holy days, and shoes
of the same to match, then on plain
weekdays he wore a suit of homespun
cloth, brushed and simply worn.

He kept a housekeeper in the house,
past forty, and a niece who had not
yet turned twenty, and a lad to run
in field and market, who could well
saddle the old nag and also take up
the pruning hook to the tall vines.

Our squire was nearing fifty years.
He had a hardy build, a lean frame,
was very early up, and dearly loved
the hunt, and rose at break of day.
They say his surname might be given
as Quixada, or else Quesada.

For upon this point the writers who
have set it down do not quite agree
though by fair reasoning it appears
his rightful name was meant to read
as Quixano. Yet this is of no small
weight; enough that in this telling
we do not stray far from the truth.