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 plain:
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 world 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.