Treasure of San Cristobal

In a whaler's pub in Boston town
Over grogs five fingers tall
They listened hard to a tale of gold
Long lost in San Cristobal.

With Irish pluck and a song to sing
And nary a coin in the purse
The father and son set out to find
A treasure that bore a curse.

San Cristobal was a banshee haunt
As Navajos had avowed
Death to the man that had touched the gold
And a howling sky for his shroud.

Of the two 'twas the son who found the trove
And he was the first to die
In a way that brought a lashing pain
And a tear to the father's eyes.

And the two of them rest in peace
Where barren dreams were sewn
A howling wind blows dust against
The shamrock on their stone.

All the gold there was naught
But the father's love for his son
Carried shining bright beyond the grave
Long after their grief was done.

Rawhide CBS TV - November 7, 1963

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