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(Paul Siebel) |
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Those other years, those dusty years |
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We drove the big herds through |
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I tried to forget the miles we rode |
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And Spanish |
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Johnny too |
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He'd sit beside a water ditch when all his herd was in |
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And he'd never harm a child but sang to his mandolin |
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He sang the old talk, the old ways, the dealins' of our game |
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Spanish Johnny seldom spoke, but sang the songs of |
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Spain And his talk with men was vicious talk |
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When he was drunk on gin |
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Ah, but those were golden things he said to his mandolin |
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We had to stand, we had to judge, we had to stop him then |
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For the hand so gentle to a child had killed so many men |
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He died a hard death long ago before the roads came in |
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And the night before he swung he sung to his mandolin |
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Well, we carried him out in the morning light |
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A man who'd done no good |
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And we lowered him down in the cold, cold clay |
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Stuck in a cross of wood |
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And a letter we wrote to his kinfolk |
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To tell them where he'd been |
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And we shipped it on down to |
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Mexico, along with his mandolin |
