Spanish Johnny

THE old West, the old time,

   The old wind singing through

The red, red grass a thousand miles --

   And Spanish Johnny, you!

He'd sit beside the water ditch

   When all his herd was in,

And never mind a child, but sing

   To his mandolin.

The big stars, the blue night,

   The moon-enchanted lane;

The olive man who never spoke,

   But sang the songs of Spain.

His speech with men was wicked talk --

   To hear it was a sin;

But those were golden things he said

   To his mandolin.

The old songs, the old stars,

   The world so golden then;

And the hand so tender to a child --

   Had killed so many men.

He died a hard death long ago

   Before the Road came in --

The night before he swung, he sang

   To his mandolin.

Willa Cather

Index to poems in the collection by Willa Cather