Up
from a province waste and drear,
Clear
in the warm spring atmosphere,
The
dismal walls of Havana stand,
Protesting
Weyler and his band.
Round
about them cannon sweep.
Trochas
and trenches wide and deep,
Safe
as the walls of Jerico,
Safe
from the Cuban’s machete blow.
Up
the province the Spaniards wind,
Butcher
Weyler riding behind.
Under
him slouch hat left and right
He
glanced, a woman met his sight.
“Halt!”
The grimy Dons stood fast;
“Fire!”
Outblazed the rifle blast.
It
riddled the victim from head and foot,
killing
a babe in her arms to boot,
Quick
as she fell by the coward’s shot,
Brave
Weyler bore her from the spot.
A
flash of triumph, a look of game
Over
the face of the leader came.
And
back to Havana midst great applause,
He
marched proclaiming he’d won his cause.
And
scores of dispatches flew to Madrid,
“Cuba
Restored” by this modern “Kidd”.
All
honor to him and let a dull
Thud
fall for her sake on Weyler’s skull.
And
ever the stars look down at last,
On
Cuba free, and Spain outclassed!
Jan.
23, ‘97
Pub.
in B. Courier
June
13, 1897
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