'Tis said--perhaps, an idle tale--
That on the road above the vale
Occurred as strange and wild a scene,
As ever ballad told, I ween.--
Yes, on this road which seems to be
Suspended o'er eternity;
So dim--so shadow-like--the vale
O'er which it hangs: but to my tale:
Once, 'tis well-known, this sunny land
Was ravag'd by full many a band
Of reckless buccaneers.
Cities were captur'd [2]--old men slain;
Trampled the fields of waving cane;
Or scatter'd wide the garner'd grain;
An hour wrought wreck of years!

Where'er these stern freebooters trod,
In hacienda--church of God--
Or, on the green-enamell'd sod--
They left foot-prints so deep,
That but their simple names would start
The blood back to each Spanish heart,
And make the children weep.

E'en to this day, their many crimes
The peasants sing in drowsy rhymes--
On mountain, or on plain;
And as they sing, the plaintive song
Tells many a deed of guilt and wrong--
Each has a doleful strain!