Our rifles were too hot to hold,

The night was made of tearing steel,

And down the street the volleys rolled

Where as in prayer the snipers kneel.

From every cranny, rift, or creek,

I heard the fatal furies scream,

And the moon held the river’s gleam

Like a long rifle to its cheek.

Of all that fearful fusillade

I reckoned not the gain or loss

To see (her every forfeit paid)

And grander, though her riches fade,

Toledo, hammered on the Cross,

And in her Master’s wounds arrayed.