The old West, the old time, <br />The old wind singing through <br />The red, red grass a thousand miles - <br />And Spanish Johnny, you! <br />He'd sit beside the water ditch <br />When all his herd was in, <br />And never mind a child, but sing <br />To his mandolin. <br /> <br />The big stars, the blue night, <br />The moon-enchanted lane; <br />The olive man who never spoke, <br />But sang the songs of Spain. <br />His speech with men was wicked talk - <br />To hear it was a sin; <br />But those were golden things he said <br />To his mandolin. <br /> <br />The gold songs, the gold stars, <br />The world so golden then; <br />And the hand so tender to a child - <br />Had killed so many men. <br />He died a hard death long ago <br />Before the Road came in - <br />The night before he swung, he sang <br />To his mandolin.<br /><br />Willa Sibert Cather<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spanish-johnny/
