Near Havanna

It was down near Havanna town, ho! It was down near Havanna town, low, That I saw a mortal fight, At the coming on of night, By the starlight a long time ago.

Two Spaniards were a-fighting for their lives, The blades flashed like lightning up and down; To the click and the clock of the knives, And there stood a lady looking on.

I asked her the cause of the fray, And she answered in Spanish: “Oh see! They are villains who carried me away, And now they are fighting for me.”

And I said as I looked at her face That I hardly could blame such a theft, “But I’ll wait until one gets his grace, Then I’ll tackle with the other who is left.”

But just as I spoke, with a start, The two leapt and fell on the sand, For both had been stabbed to the heart And each had his death out of hand.

So I and the donna were friends, And that of the kindest and best; Now here this true history ends, And you must imagine the rest.

And ’twas all near Havanna town, ho! It was down by Havanna town, low, That I saw this mortal fight, At the coming on of night, By the starlight a long time ago.

There sat a stranger there whom no one knew, Who did not seem a follower of the sea, And yet no stranger surely to the Blue, Who now politely spoke the company, Saying unto them: “Mates, ’tween you and me, I put it as a question—don’t you think That it is pretty near time to take a drink? And if you do belong to Gideon’s Band, Then here’s my purse to pay—and here’s my hand”— There was a roar of laughter loud and long, And then the stranger burst into a song; But for a minute were they all so gay, For with the words their laughter died away.

THE THREE DEAD MEN Los tres Muertos

Ever so far and far away, Down in the hollow by the bay, Where the beach is dry and the rocks are high, Under the sand three dead men lie. There they lie alow, low, low, Nor hear the cockrel’s crow. Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing, There they lie alow, low, low.

One was drowned in yonder sea, One was shot as it may be, One was left on the beach to die, But all in the hollow sleeping lie. There they lie alow, low, low, Nor wake at the cockrel’s crow. Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing, There they lie alow, low, low.

Sometimes when the moon is bright You can see the three, like gulls in flight, Flitting along above the waves, Or sitting and talking on their graves, Where they lie alow, low, low, Nor hear the cockrel’s crow. Where the palm-trees are a-growing, and the wind is ever blowing, There they lie alow, low, low.

There was a pause—when some one merrily Struck up a song which all have known of old; How Billy Taylor’s sweetheart went to sea, And how she fought in an engagement bold: And as the talk ran on of female sailors Who’ve gone to sea in men-of-war, or whalers, Until I spoke and said: “I know a lay About a Spanish lady, old lang syne, Who, as a sailor, wished to sail away— The words are by another and not mine:”