Just to make Pancho jealous-ay de mi! -
With Juan I flittered. I cared not for Juan,
Yet talked, laughed, danced with him, just but to see
My Pancho's eyes grow flame as he looked on.

Padre, it is the woman's way, you know-
And I'm but woman: Si, 'with fire to play.'
What would you? Could I dream ‘twould madden so?
Ah, God! the fires of hell are mine today!

‘Twas in the moonlight, in the garden where'
The roses bloom the thickest, night half sped,
And Juan had placed a rose bud in my hair-
There was a flash of steel, and Juan lay dead.

Mary! Madonna! Help Thou me this day!
Pancho I loved-him only, Mother Divine! . . .
And Juan is dead. . . O Padre mio, pray!
Pray for my soul, for Pancho's soul and mine!