The Alcázar
The General now lives in town;
He’s eighty odd, they say;
You’ll see him strolling up and down
The Prada any day.
He goes to every football game,
The bull—ring knows his voice,
And when the people cheer his name
Moscardo must rejoice.
Yet does he, in the gaiety
Of opera and ball,
A dingy little cellar see,
A picture on a wall?
A portrait of a laughing boy
Of sixteen singing years . . .
Oh does his heart dilate with joy,
Or dim his eyes with tears?
And can he hear a wistful lad
Speak on the telephone?
“Hello! How is it with you, Dad?
That’s right —I’m all alone.
They say they’ll shoot me at the dawn
If you do not give in . . .
But never mind, Dad —carry on:
You know we’ve got to win.”
And so they shot him at the dawn.
No bandage irked his eyes,
A lonely lad, so wistful wan,
He made his sacrifice.
he saw above the Citadel
His flag of glory fly,
And crying: “long live Spain!” he fell
And died as heroes die.
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