Where the reed-grass whets its scythes;

In the dismal, creepy quagmire,

Where the snake-gourd twists and writhes.

They are singing in arroyos,

Where the cactus mails its breast,

Where the Spanish bayonet glistens

On the steep bank’s rocky crest;

In the cañon, where the cascade

Sets its pearls in maiden-hair,

Where the hay and holly beckon