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Out from the towns, with their commingled strain
Of Spanish blood, these native men remain
The Indian tribes Hernando Cortés met,
Their ancient languages not perished yet,
Nor dim observance of old heathen rite,
Nor savage passion, deadly quick in fight:
Yet kindly aid to stranger guest is given,
And Mary trusted as the Queen of Heaven.
Knowing and having little, but content,
In daily toil their simple lives are spent.
A base content is this the gods bestow;
Meanly to live in glorious Mexico.
