 | Graffiti d'Italia |  |
282
THE GAUCHO.
Over the lonely, desolate Pampas,
A sinewy horse my flying throne,
Coiled at my saddle-bow the lasso,
In my belt a knife that reaches the bone.
I am the Gaucho,—riding, hiding,
Whirling the bolas, wielding the knife,
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
A sinewy horse my flying throne,
Coiled at my saddle-bow the lasso,
In my belt a knife that reaches the bone.
I am the Gaucho,—riding, hiding,
Whirling the bolas, wielding the knife,
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
Ne'er a tide but the fleeting seasons
Sweeps o'er the inland sea of grass;
Roaring herds, like clouds of thunder,
Over its lonely levels pass.
Jaguars yell; and, striding, hiding,
Ostriches rush—for they fear the knife—
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
Sweeps o'er the inland sea of grass;
Roaring herds, like clouds of thunder,
Over its lonely levels pass.
283
Ostriches rush—for they fear the knife—
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
With my tongues of cows and gourd of yerba,
And the cigaritos smoke on my hearth,
I laugh at your houses; my saddle 's my pillow,
My chamber a thousand miles of earth.
With the stars above me gliding, hiding,
I lie at ease, as I grasp my knife.
On the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who awakes me look out for his life!
And the cigaritos smoke on my hearth,
I laugh at your houses; my saddle 's my pillow,
My chamber a thousand miles of earth.
With the stars above me gliding, hiding,
I lie at ease, as I grasp my knife.
On the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who awakes me look out for his life!
Look! in the distance a cloud is rising;
In with the spur! fling loose the rein!
Sharp sings the lasso's loop as it whizzes,—
And the bellowing bull drops on the plain.
Out from my saddle sliding, gliding,
Deep in his throat my flashing knife.
O'er the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
In with the spur! fling loose the rein!
Sharp sings the lasso's loop as it whizzes,—
And the bellowing bull drops on the plain.
Out from my saddle sliding, gliding,
Deep in his throat my flashing knife.
O'er the wide prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who pursues me look out for his life!
284
Keep your dragoons at home—I warn you!
For the Gaucho writes his laws in blood;
The bolas are ready; coiled is the lasso;
And this white dust can be red mud.
You for the crows, and, riding, riding,
I for the Andes with my knife.
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
For the Gaucho writes his laws in blood;
The bolas are ready; coiled is the lasso;
And this white dust can be red mud.
You for the crows, and, riding, riding,
I for the Andes with my knife.
Over the prairies of Buenos Ayres,
Let him who would take me look out for his life!
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