Down, down, where he fought fell each hero,
Horse and man, one by one, where he stood;
And the sands of the rugged sierra
Were crimson with Mexican blood.
Like a lion at bay rode Najira:
Not one of the troop that he led
But was stretched on the side of the mountain —
Thick strown with the dying and dead.
His coat and his saddle were bloody;
He reeled in his seat as he strove