At least, if any have won to rest
In the fair, green land of the ever blest
By earning their right therein to dwell,
Jesus Garcia deserved it well,
For in the blast that strewed his train,
Torn in fragments, along the plain.
Only his soul went forth to meet
The final call at his Master's feet.
So it is that to-day, alone,
In a white-washed cottage at Torreon,