It’s all very well to write reviews,
And carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes,
And say what everyone’s saying here,
And wear what everyone else must wear,
But tonight I’m sick of the whole affair.
For I want free life and I want fresh air,
And I long for the canter after the cattle,
For the crack of the whip, like shots in battle,
For the meelee of hoofs and horns, and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads,
For the green beneath and the blue above
And dash, and danger, and life and love, and Lasca.
Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang
Close to my side,
With blue serape and bright belled spur,
I laughed with joy when I looked at her;
Little knew she of books or creeds,
An Ave Marie sufficed her needs,
Little cared she, save to be by my side,
To ride with me and ever to ride
From San Sabas shore to Lavatoes tide.
The air was heavy and the night was hot,
I sat by her side and forgot, forgot,
Forgot that the air was close, oppressed,
That a Texas northern comes sudden and soon
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon,
And once let a herd in its rest take fright,
There’s nothing on earth can stop its flight,
And woe to the rider and woe to the steed
That falls in front of a mad stampede.
Was that thunder?
I sprang to the saddle, she clung behind
And away on a hot race down the wind,
And never was steed so little spared
And never was foxhunt half so hard,
For we rode for our lives,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The mustang flew, but we urged him on.
You have one chance left
And you have but one halt,
Jump to earth and shoot your horse,
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance,
And if those steers in their maddening course
Don’t batter you both to pieces at once
You may thank your stars, if not good-bye,
With a quickened kiss and a long-drawn sigh
To the opened air and the open sky
Of Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The cattle were gaining and just as I felt
For my good six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down we clinging together.
What is the rest? A body has spread itself on my breast,
Two lips so close to my lips were pressed.
And then came thunder into my ears
And over us surged “a sea of steers,”
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
Two arms are shielding my dizzy head,
And when I could rise, Lasca was dead.
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep.
And there she is lying and no one knows,
And the summer shines and the winter snows.
For many a year the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head.
And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone.
Stately and still like a ship at sea.
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were
Does half the heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
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