Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down
From the far cold North;[847] they are men who know—
Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848] woe;
Nay, their very touch is blest.
“Oranges! Oranges!”[849] hear her cry,
Through the shaded plaza path;
But the Northern soldiers come marching in
Through the old Spanish city with stir and din;
And silent people[850] stand sullen by,
To see the old flag mount[851] again to the sky—