Our warriors move—of zeal there is no lack.
The Invaders feel their ire, like gathering thunder black.
XXXII.
“And hangs upon their skirt with fierce annoy
The mountain Guerrillero tiger-springing,
The Chapelchurri burning to destroy,
From heights around Bilbaö vengeance winging,
The Chapelgorri with his musket ringing,
A dearer Chacolin—the Frenchman’s blood—
Thirsting to pour, the rich libation flinging