And toast, with huzzahs, the health of Saint Glug,
For to men of the world he’s their patron saint.
All drink to the fame of the bravest of comrades
Who, to judge by the barrel of wine they imbibe,
Must indeed be a man most worthy of honor.
At the fore, is the handsome young Gines el Lindo
Who, they say, is a practicing doctor of fencing,
Even though he’s a queer and strums the guitar.
Nearby, Saramago, that fine Portuguese,
Who’s always prepared to spout some philosophy;
For sure, he’s a doctor
And wields with a flourish both a pen and a sword.
Another fine rogue can be seen paying court—
from the town of Chipiona and sharp as a tack—
by name, El Bravo de los Galeones.
Then, Guzman Ramirez, a man of few words,
Grabs a new deck of cards and is ready to play
With Rojo Carmona, his companion at table,
Who’s known as a notable trickster to boot.
Many others there are in the thievery line,
Who love to distraction the pockets of others;
A newcomer there is, Diego Alatriste,
Who has come like a brother to be with Ganzua.
And sitting beside him there’s Inigo Balboa,
A young man who showed at the great Siege of Breda
His courage in fighting—no coward was he.
While they’re singing their songs and playing at cards,
While they carry on drinking the wine red as blood,
They are keeping a courteous eye on Ganzua,
For that is the least decent people can do—
Come when they’re needed, give care without stint,
For this kind of misfortune may one day be theirs.
SECOND BALLAD
They were deep in their game and their serious drinking
When in came the law so to read out the sentence
And all for the card-playing prisoner’s sake.
But no interest he showed in these sonorous words,
Though his precious life’s blood depended on them;
More concerned was he then with the scoring of points.
When the scribe and the guard were about to depart,
A monk Augustinian offered confession,
Which was straightway declined by Nicasio Ganzua.
Thus he turned down the chance to sing out at vespers
The tune that he never had warbled at prime.
When the monk and the officers finally left,
And Ganzua was carefully playing his hand,
He found at the end that he held a trump card
And so won the game and collected his winnings.
Then, dealing again, he smoothed his mustache,
And in tones low and grave he addressed his confreres:
“I am helpless, my friends, I am stuck in this prison,
Till my neck is caressed by the rope in the morning
With a love so intense it will certainly kill me,
For I’ll never escape its tight’ning embrace.
So allow me, my friends, a list of farewells,
My last will and testament, mark every word!
Were it not for the stool pigeon who sang out too loudly
I’d be free, and not stupidly facing my death.
I ask you, friends all, give that slimiest of squealers
A good length of steel through the throat—make him bleed—
For to leave him the freedom to wag his long tongue
Is a curse and a plague and as deadly as sin.
Item Two: If you please, give a fistful of wishes
To the one who betrayed me—that traitorous jeweler—
Hit him hard in the chops when you give him my greetings,
For he certainly played me the vilest of tricks—
Thus make sure he will always remember my name.
Item Three: Stick your knives several times in that catchpole,
That turd, Mojarrilla, who handled me roughly
When I was arrested. And as for the judge
With his hand-me-down robe and his high noble ways,
Just give him the same, make him bleed for his pains.
And lastly, my whore, Maripizca,
Of clean blood and habits; my friends, look to her,
For though she’s no child, proper “ladies” like her
Should not be alone when they walk down the street.
I close on this hour, on this date, in this place,
This the very last will of the ruffian Ganzua.”
Every heart there was moved and everyone stood
And did swear and did promise, as trusty friends should,
To execute, faithfully, all of his wishes.
THIRD BALLAD
Ganzua, awaiting his execution,
Was dressed in the finest of clothes,
He had never before looked so handsome as then
On the night all his friends watched with him.
He was wearing a doublet of fine purple cloth
Whose full sleeves were slashed
And green canvas breeches that were held up in style
By a belt that was four inches wide,
And shoes for a light Sunday promenade,
Adorned with two bright scarlet bows,
Each shoe with a silvery buckle that glittered
Against the deep black of the leather.
Early next morning, to enter the square,
He changed to a simple serge gown
As befitting a man who was soon to be led
To the scaffold’s bare, high wooden hill—
Quite unlike the brave judges who put on their gowns
