Don Juan

Don juan has ever the grand old air, As he greets me with courtly grace; Like a crown of glory the snow-white hair That halos his swarthy face; And he says, with a courtesy rare and fine, As he ushers me in at the door, “Panchita mia will bring us the wine, And the casa is yours, señor.” His fourscore years have a tranquil cast, For Time has tempered his heart and hand; Though the seething tide of his blood ran fast When he ruled like a lord in the land. In the wild rodeo and mad stampede He rode, I am told, In the days of old, With his brown vaqueros at headlong speed. From the Toro Peaks to the Carmel Pass His cattle fed on the rich, wild grass; And far to the west, Where the sand-dunes rest On the rim of the heaving sea, From the Point of Pines to the river’s mouth, From the Gabilan Hills to the bay on the south, He held the land in fee. It was never the same When the Gringos came, With their lust of gold and their greed of gain; And his humble cot, With its garden plot, Is all that is left of his wide domain. But he says with a courtesy rare and fine, As he ushers me in at the door, “Panchita mia will bring us the wine, And the casa is yours, señor.”