I want free life and I want fresh air;
And I sigh for the canter after the cattle,
The crack of the whips like shots in a battle,
The medley of horns and hoofs and heads
That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads;
The green beneath and the blue above,
And dash and danger, and life and love —
And Lasca!
Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang close by my side,
With blue serape and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Ave Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride,
From San Saba's shore to LaVaca's tide.
She was as bold as the billows that beat,
She was as wild as the breezes that blow;
From her little head to her little feet
She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro
By each gust of passion; a sapling pine
That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff
And wars with the wind when the weather is rough
Is like this Lasca, this love of mine.
She would hunger that I might eat,
Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet;
But once, when I made her jealous for fun,
At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done,
One Sunday, in San Antonio,
To a glorious girl in the Alamo,
She drew from her garter a dear little dagger,
And — sting of a wasp! — it made me stagger!
An inch to the left, or an inch to the right,
And I shouldn't be maundering here tonight;
But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound
Her torn reboso about the wound,
That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
Her eye was brown — a deep, deep brown;
Her hair was darker than her eye;
And something in her smile and frown,
Curled crimson lip and instep high,
Showed that there ran in each blue vein,
Mixed with the milder Aztec strain,
The vigorous vintage of Old Spain.
She was alive in every limb
With feeling to the finger tips;
And when the sun is like a fire,
And sky one shining, soft sapphire,
One does not drink in little sips.
The air was heavy, and the night was hot,
I sat by her side, and forgot - forgot;
Forgot the herd that were taking their rest,
Forgot that the air was close opprest,
That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon,
In the dead of night or the blaze of noon;
That, once let the herd at its breath take fright,
Nothing on earth can stop the flight;
And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed,
Who falls in front of their mad stampede!
Was that thunder? I grasped the cord
Of my swift mustang without a word.
I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind.
Away! On a hot chase down the wind!
But never was fox hunt half so hard,
And never was steed so little spared,
For we rode for our lives, You shall hear how we fared
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The mustang flew, and we urged him on;
There was one chance left, and you have but one;
Halt, jump to ground, and shoot your horse;
Crouch under his carcass and take your chance;
And, if the steers in their frantic course
Don't batter you both to pieces at once,
You may thank your star; if not, goodby
To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh,
And the open air and the open sky,
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande.
The cattle gained on us, and just as I felt
For my old six-shooter behind in my belt,
Down came the mustang, and down came we,
Clinging together — and, what was the rest?
A body that spread itself on my brest,
Two arms that shielded my dizzy head,
Two lips that hard on my lips were prest;
Then came thunder in my ears,
As over us surged the sea of steers,
Blows that beat blood into my eyes,
And when I could rise—
Lasca was dead!
I gouged out a grave a few feet deep,
And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep;
And there she is lying, and no one knows;
And the summer shines and the winter snows;
For many a day the flowers have spread
A pall of petals over her head;
And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air,
And the sly coyote trots here and there,
And the black snake glides and glitters and slides
Into a rift in a cottonwood tree;
And the buzzard sails on,
And comes and is gone,
Stately and still like a ship at sea.
And I wonder why I do not care
For the things that are like the things that were.
Does half my heart lie buried there
In Texas, down by the Rio Grande?
Notes
Frank Desprez's best-known work is the poem, "Lasca" about a Mexican girl and her cowboy sweetheart caught in a cattle stampede "in Texas down by the Rio Grande." The ballad-like poem, first published in The London Society: A Magazine of Light and Amusing Literature, for November of 1882, has often been reprinted, usually with deletions and changes, and recited in many parts of the English-speaking world. These include, a couple of years later, the Livestock Journal, and in the Miles City Stockman. It quickly moved into the oral tradition where it remains.
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Comments
1 - 6 of 6
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I was surprised to find that the author was English. I expected him to be American from the subject and tone. A thoroughly enjoyable poem, a poignant narrative with a pleasing ease to the rhyme.
. Rewarded 4
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Laska
From guest Stan Joseph (contact)
I have always loved this poem. I learned it from a friend while in high school. I had forgotten some of the lines over the years, thanks for renewing my memories. -
Lasca
From guest Graham Chapman (contact)
It's all very well to write reviews, And carry umrellas, and keep dry shoes, And say what everyone's saying here, And wear what everyone else must wear; But to-night I'm sick of the whole affair. I want free life, and I want, and I want fresh air; These are the first lines recited to me as a boy aged 14...I'm now 60. The page I have also has this beginning to lasca, unfortunately, I don't have the name of the book, as it was copied from a city library book some 20 years ago. (In my then quest to find the complete poem). -
Lasca
From guest Graham Chapman (contact)
Why is the first stanza often not printed? For example my copy of Lasca begins with: "It's all very well to write reviews,
And carry umbrellas, and keep dry shoes, -
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To Guest Graham Chapman,
Sometimes a poet may not be happy with a version of a poem after it has gone to print and will adjust it or add extra lines for reprints or new editions.
Sometimes anthology editors omit sections of poems for a variety of reasons. Controversy, Taste, Space.
Sometimes an unscrupulous editor will even add their own lines!!
At this late stage I cannot say why it happens for this poem.
However if you write the text of the all the missing lines into a comment here (and the book title you took it from), then others will be able to share those words with you.
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this poem, Laska
From guest Marty Nelson (contact)
This poem, Laska, opened my eyes to my father's gifts of memory. He had memorized this poem in college and he never mentioned that or any oration he had ever done. Then, in his late 70's, out of the blue, he one day commented about memories getting bad, etc., for old friends but not his. He then proceeded to recite, with gestures and intonation, Laska. I was impressed, to say the least. -
Laska has been an oral tradition...
From guest Michael Patterson (contact)
within my extended Texas Boykin/Patterson family for several generations. It has never failed us. -
Morbid Facination
From guest John Connell (contact)
Our dearest memories of our grandmother included her recitation of this epic. She was born in 1895, learned this in elementary school and could recite every line well into her 80's . She would mesmerize us with this poem and her singing of "The Butcher's Boy" and "Old Mr. Johnny Vorbeck". All three dealt with someone dying a horrible death. We kids all loved them and would plead for them at all family gatherings. So politically incorrect today, but so much fun 50 years ago. John p.s. There is a recording of this performed by Harry Humphrey at the Library of Congress website : http://memory.loc.gov/cgi-bin/query -
This brings back great memories...
My father, Lawrence, who was born in 1910, recited this poem for us (his seven children) often. As a young man, Lawrence was a student of elocution ~ public speaking ~ and this was among his favorites. I loved finding it. The first line, "I want free life, I want fresh air", epoitomizes my father.
Virginia -
Hard to believe this was written by an Englishman. On first reading it appears to be written by an American author. so good is the narration and description of the country, the people, it makes an exciting story.
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We English are good at this sort of thing
Plus he did live and work on the plains for 3 years.
Jim
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I have been searching for this ballad since 1983 for a good friend whose father used to recite it on horseback, around a fire for family and friends. He also used to recite "The Man From Snowy River". My search began when he passed away. Thanks so much. I will send it to his son.
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