"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain
From your walls ring far and shrill,
And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.
"And gird my form with mail-array,
And set me on my steed,
So go ye forth on your funeral-way,
And God shall give you speed.
"Go with the dead in the front of war,
All arm'd with sword and helm,5[1]
And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.
"And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed my day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth."
—Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave!6[2]
Through the lattice a wind sweeps by,
And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave,
Send forth a hollow sigh.
