Spanish Johnny

The old West, the old time,   The old wind singing through The red, red grass a thousand miles—   And, Spanish Johnny, you! He’d sit beside the water ditch   When all his herd was in, And never mind a child, but sing   To his mandolin. The big stars, the blue night,   The moon-enchanted lane; The olive man who never spoke,   But sang the songs of Spain. His speech with men was wicked talk—   To hear it was a sin; But those were golden things he said   To his mandolin. The gold songs, the gold stars,   The word so golden then; And the hand so tender to a child—   Had killed so many men. He died a hard death long ago   Before the Road came in— The night before he swung, he sang   To his mandolin.