Down, down, at each stroke an invader
Sank wounded, and gasping, and dead,
As he galloped from foeman to foeman,
His sword, waved in scorn, overhead.
But the bullet at last rent his bosom,
And down, from the cliff to the plain,
Rolled the form of the dying Najira,
The bravest and best of the slain.
Weep, weep, for the gallant Najira!
For never will Mexico own