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Vosotros, que fieles 

 Habeis acudido, 

 Al primer gemido 

 De nuestra opresion. 



Venganza os llamava 

 Del sangre inocente, 

 Alzasteis la frente, 

 Que jamais temio ; 

 Y al ver os, los Dueiios 

 De tantas conquistas, 

 Huyen como aristas 

 Que el viento arollo. 



Vos, de una mirada 

 Que echasteis al cielo, 

 Parasteis al vuelo 

 Del aquila audaz ; 

 Y al polvo arrojasteies 

 Con iras vizarras 

 x Las alas y garras 

 Del ave rapas. 



Son a vuestros plantas, 

 Alfombra serena, 

 Laureles de lena, 

 Palmas de Austerlitz, 

 Son cantos de gloria 

 Volver los cautivos 

 Sus gritos altivos, 

 En llante infeliz. 



Llegad ya provincias 

 Que valeis naciones, 

 Ya vuestros pendones 

 Deslumbran al sol ; 

 Palido el tirano, tiembla, 

 Y sus legiones 

 Muerden los Teronnes 

 Del suelo Espanol. 



Gloria 6 flor del Betis, 

 Que haveis bien probado 

 El brio heredado 

 Del suelo natal ; 

 Que alii sin cultivo 

 Crece, y selevanta 

 Del triunfo la planta 

 La oliva immortal. 



PATRIOTIC SONGS OF SPAIN. 



Ye faithful to your land, 



Who heard her cry of grief, 

 And grasped, with ready hand, 



Your swords for her relief ! 



From guiltless blood, when wide 



The voice of vengeance rose, 

 Ye reared your front of pride, 



That never quailed to foes ! 

 The lords of conquered Spain, 



From the flashing of your eye, 

 Fled, like chaff along the plain, 



When the breeze drives lightly by. 



The blasting look ye threw, 



When ye turned to heaven your sight, 

 Might the eagle's rage subdue, 



As he tower'd in his flight, 

 And in the dust, at length, 



Your fiercer anger's flame 

 Could cast his winged strength, 



His savage talons, tame. 



Wreaths at your feet are strewn, 



A carpet broad and bright, 

 Of Austerlitz the crown, 



And Jena's fatal fight. 

 Your songs of triumph flow, 



The captives answer not, 

 But change from scorn to woe, 



And weep their hapless lot. 



Each province in the fray, 



Might cause a nation's wail, 

 When their ensigns hid the day, 



As they flung them to the gale. 

 The pallid tyrant shook, 



When his dying legions round, 

 The last possession took, 



They may hold on Spanish ground. 



Hail, Betis ! to thy bold- 

 How well their deeds disclose 



The heirs of valour old, 



On their native soil that rose. 



There, triumph's plant in birth 

 Is unconstrain'd and free 



From rich uncultur'd earth 



Springs the deathless olive-tree. 



