As we drove our prize at leisure, Santa Anna marched to catch us; His rage surpassed all measure, Because he could not match us. He fled to his hall pillars; But, ere our force we led off, Some sacked his house and cellars, While others cut his head off."
Poetry has always been allowed some licence, and we suppose we must pass over the assertion in the last line, by merely observing by the way that Santa Anna is, in vulgar phrase, still "alive and kicking."
The song ends thus:
"We then, in strife bewildering, Spilt blood enough to swim in; We orphaned many children, (childering) And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens We glutted with the foemen; Their heroes and their cravens, Their lancers and their bowmen.
As for Santa Anna, their blood-red chief, His head was borne before us; His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow our chorus."
The foregoing extracts are all in a warlike strain. We will now give a few specimens of the softer lyrics in which these scalpers indulge. The Irish melodies of Moore are, it appears, not unknown even amongst them; and that they are admired, the following imitation, or rather parody, of one of the most beautiful of them will sufficiently show.
"There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that Mexican vale in whose bosom "lakes" meet. Oh! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart!
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal, and brightest of green; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill: Oh, no, it was something more heart-touching still!
'Twas remembrance of all,—Montezuma—his throne— The power and the glory of Aztek all gone! Like the leaves of the forest in autumn are strewn, Were the splendour and hope of that race overthrown.