Battle of the Bulls

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Death and the Wolves
By Levi W. Hancock.

The Battalion encamped
By the side of a grove,
Where the pure waters flowed
From the mountains above.
Our brave hunters came in
From the chase of wild bulls-
All round 'rose the din
Of the howling of wolves.

When the guards were all placed
On their outposts around,
The low hills and borad wastes
Were alive with the sound,
Though the cold wind blew high
Down the huge mountain shelves,
All the rife with the cry
Of the ravenous wolves.

Thus we watched th elast breath
Of the teamster, who lay
In the cold grasp of death,
As his life wore away.
In deep anguish he moan'd
As if mocking his pain,
When the dying man groan'd
The wolves howl'd a refrain.

For it seem'd the wolves knew
There was death in our camp,
As our tones louder grew,
And more hurried their tramp.
While the dead lay within,
With our grief to the full,
O, how horrid a din
Was the howl of the wolves!

Then we dug a deep grave,
And we buried him there-
All alone by the grove-
Not a stone to tell where!
But we piled brush and wood
And burnt over his grave,
For a cheat, to delude
Both the savage and wolf.

'Twas a sad, doleful night!
We by sunrise, next day,
When the drums and the fifes
Had performed reveille-
When the teams were brought nigh,
And our baggage arranged,
One an dall, bid Good bye,
To the grave and the wolves.

The Bull Fight on the San Pedro.


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