The warden of Molina, ah! furious was his speed,
As he dashed his glittering rowels in the flank of his good steed,
And his reins left dangling from the bit, along the white highway,
For his mind was set to speed his horse, to speed and not to stay.
He rode upon a grizzled roan, and with the wind he raced,
And the breezes rustled round him like a tempest in the waste.
In the Plaza of Molina at last he made his stand,
And in a voice of thunder he uttered his command:
To arms, to arms, my captains!
Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow;