CRITICAL RACE POETRY OF RANGERS HANGING A "GREASER"...

 (Ed.'s Note: Few people would find art in such a mundane thing as band of Texas Rangers hanging a Mexican after he supposedly stole the company's bugle and woke them up foolishly blowing it while they slept. A reflection of the times, perhaps, but this is the kind of literature that would probably be banned in classrooms by Texas Gov. Greg Abbott and his fellow anti-critical race theory legislators in Austin. 

Yet, on April 21, 1875, the Dallas Daily Herald printed the poem in its front page called "Hanging the Chaparral, or the Midnight Bugler." written by someone with the pseudonym of Buckskin Sam. There is much mirth and bravado in the tale of a company of  Rangers busy with one Mexican, a tree, and a noose. Then "a half dozen boys who like that sort of fun" pull on the rope.

The simple plot revolves around a band of rangers looking for Mexicans and routing them from a camp, then catching one in the chaparral accused of stealing the company bugle after he foolishly blows it at night and wakes them up. It goes downhill from there on. They string him up, he refuses to tell them where Cortina is, and they ride on leaving the Mexican hanging " a warning to all Greasers." We thank author/researcher Dr. Marie-Theresa Hernández, a professor in the Languages department at University of Houston, for bringing it to our attention.)

"Remember the Alamo," this
The war-cry shrill and clear
Of our brave band of rangers fell
Upon the bandits' ears
As in the morning, damp and still
We dashed into their camp
And woke them from their slumbers by
The thunder of our tramp..."

Few were our numbers, many they,
But on our side was right;
We shot them down remorselessly
Nor spared them in the fight
They fled in terror – all who escaped
From our avenging hand
For quarter was not given then
Along the Rio Grande

(After the slaughter, they make camp and are awakened by a Mexican blowing the company's bugle and capture the man, allegedly one of Cortina's men. He refuses to give them information on Cortina and they hang him.)

"What's up my boys," says Donaldson

Is this some thievin' Mex

That stole a bugle from Ft. Brown

He'd better pass his cheeks,

Put out a half-dozen scout

And scour the chaparral

And if we take him prisoner, 

We'll ticket him to (hell)

(They capture a Mexican in the chaparral and return him wounded, and he refuses to talk)

They're coming, here they are," says Cap

And got a sneaking cuss

Dog-gone your dirty picture, why

Did you make such a fuss

Why didn't you come up decently

And say yer wanted hanging?

Where's Cortina and his band?

Look here now, none your shamin'

But not a word the bugler spoke

He fiercely looked around

While from his arms and from his cheek

The blood slow trickled down

"Bring me a rope, we'll find his tongue

You bet your bottom dollar

Here, Toby, make a hangsman knot

And fit him to a collar..."

The rope was looped around his neck

Then, o'er the limb was run

And half a dozen of the boys

Who liked that sort of fun

Pulled steadily upon the hemp

And brought him up standing

Till he was black as any nig

On Mississippi landing

"Hold on," says Cap

I'll interview the cuss

He'll give us information

If not, we'll treat him worse.

Now, Greaser, this is your last chance

Too do a  Christian deed

Where's Cortina, tell us quick

Or be hung up for seed."

From mortal fear and loss of blood

The bugler's legs they quiver

But knowing well he ne'er again

Will see his Grande river

He braced himself and gazed around

Like tiger cat at bay

Then yelled, "Viva la Cortina"

Which was his final say...

For e're he finished high he swung...

Then hastily we packed out traps

And take our morning meal

Fall into line, answer the roll

And southward silently steal

Leaving the rigid bugler there

Slow swaying 'neath the tree

A warning to all Greasers, who

May chance that way to be....