Santa Anna and Castrillon, Almontê brave and gay, Portilla red from Goliad, And Cos with his smart array. Dulces and cigaritos, And the light guitar, ting-tum! Sant’ Anna courts siesta-- And Sam Houston taps his drum. The buck stands still in the timber-- “Is it patter of nuts that fall?” The foal of the wild mare whinnies-- “Did he hear the Comanche call?” In the brake by the crawling bayou The slinking she-wolves howl, And the mustang’s snort in the river sedge Has startled the paddling fowl. A soft low tap, and a muffled tap, And a roll not loud nor long-- We would not break Sant’ Anna’s nap, Nor spoil Almontê’s song. Saddles and knives and rifles! Lord! but the men were glad When Deaf Smith muttered “Alamo!” And Karnes hissed “Goliad!” The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt, And the fifer gripped his gun. Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell, And we took the slope in a run! But never a shout nor a shot we spent, Nor an oath nor a prayer that day, Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye, And then we blazed away. Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam, And the glory that Travis made, With Bowie’s lunge and Crockett’s shot, And Fannin’s dancing blade; And the heart of the fighter, bounding free In his joy so hot and mad-- When Millard charged for Alamo, Lamar for Goliad. Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur, Into the shock and rout: “I’ve hacked and burned the bayou bridge, There’s no sneak’s back-way out!” Muzzle or butt for Goliad, Pistol and blade and fist! Oh, for the knife that never glanced, And the gun that never missed! Dulces and cigaritos, Song and the mandolin! That gory swamp was a gruesome grove To dance fandangos in. We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd That fell in that frantic rout; We slew and slew till the sun set red, And the Texan star flashed out. JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. (By special permission of the author, and of Herbert S. Stone and Company.) 15 MONTEREY We were not many--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on, still on, our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way; Where fell the dead the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey.