Pedro Rionda and his sons,

Leandro and RamÉ,

Had left th’ insurgent army

For a visit home that day.

And ere the time came to depart,

To join their ranks once more,

JosÉ, the little crippled son,

Chanced to glance out the door.

His pinched face suddenly grew white,—

Yet calm he turned about;

“Father, Leandro, RamÉ—quick!

The Spanish are without!”

Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still,

He grasped his trusty gun,—

A Spanish army couldn’t make

A Cuban patriot run!

His breath came quick—he thought aloud,

“If we should face the band,

They are too many—there’d be three,—

Three less to save the land!”

“Oh, God! it is the only thing!

It’s one or three—JosÉ!

Think you could keep the devils back

Till we are safe away!”

“It may be death,” he spoke it soft,

“When they don’t find us here,—

Our country needs her able men;

Speak, JosÉ, have you fear?”

“No; father, no—quick, brothers, go!

It’s all I have to give,—

It matters not if I am shot,—

Our country—it must live!”

One long embrace—and they are off!

Bang! bang! ’twas JosÉ’s gun,—

The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,—

He met them, one by one.

And when his ammunition’s spent,

The three are safe away,—

The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse,

Rush in on brave JosÉ!

“Where, where,—and are the rebels fled,

Are they escaped through you?”

They madly grasped the crippled boy,

While flashing swords they drew.

All honor be to Cuba’s sons

(But let this not suffice)

Who perished on the field—there’s, too,

The cripple’s sacrifice!