PATRIOTIC SONGS OF SPAIN, 



433 



Gloria 6 valeroso 

 Del solar Manchego 

 O cuan bello riego 

 Dais a vuestra mies ! 

 Los surcos se vuelven, 

 Sepulcro a Tiranos, 

 Sangrientos los granos, 

 Se mecen despues. 



Gloria 6 flor del Turia, 

 De marte centellas, 

 Pues vivos como ellas, 

 Al campo volais ; 

 La hueste enemiga 

 Rompeis imprevistos, 

 Y apenas sois vistos 

 Victoria cantais. 



Y en tanto en el Ebro, 

 Los pechos son muros, 

 Que atienden seguros 

 " Morir 6 veneer;" 

 Siempre el sol los halla 

 Lidiando con gloria 

 Siempre con victoria 

 Los dexa a el caer. 



O que hermosos vienen, 

 Su porte cuan fiero, 

 Qual brilla el acero 

 Qual suena el arnes. 

 Estos son guerreros 

 Valientes y bravos, 

 Y no son esclavos 

 Del yugo Frances. 



Ninfas vengan lauros, 

 Frescos, verdes bellos, 

 Enjugad con ellos 

 Tan noble sudor ; 

 Ni olvideis la oliva, 

 Que es planta gloriosa, 

 Ni aun alguna rosa 

 Que os brinde el amor. 



Hail to Manchego's power ! 



All hail, illustrious band, 

 Who bathe in hostile gore 



The crops that load your land ! 

 The gaping furrows seem 



A tomb for tyrant trench 'd, 

 Where the floating harvest's gleam 



In a bloody tide is quench' d. 



Hail, Turians ! void of fear ! 



Ye sparks of martial flame ; 

 For your valour blazed as clear, 



When ye sought the field of fame ; 

 You scatter' d wide the foe, 



As you suddenly dashed on, 

 And he scarce exchanged a blow 



Ere the victory was won. 



Hail, band from Ebro's wave ! 



Your breasts, a rampart wall, 

 Waited, heedless of the grave, 



To conquer or to fall. 

 The sun your deeds beheld, 



When his beams awoke the day, 

 And the enemy was quelled, 



Ere his light had passed away. 



How beautiful their line, 



As they proudly march to war ! 

 How their burnished weapons shine, 



And their harness rings from far. 

 Each by his gallant mien, 



A warrior bold and brave, 

 And not a man, I ween, 



To the Gallic yoke a slave. 



Ye maids ! bring laurel boughs, 



Fresh, green, and fair to see, 

 And wipe their weary brows, 



Where the drops are rising free. 

 Forget not ample wreaths, 



From the glorious olive-grove, 

 Nor the opening rose, that breathes 



The blushing pledge of love. 



