Save the glare which flash'd from the warrior's torch,
O'er the death-pale face of the brave.
We press'd the helm on his ghastly head,
We bound a sword to the hand of the dead,
When the Cid went forth to fight.
Oh where was Castile's battle cry,
The shout of St. James and victory,
And the Christians stalwart might?
The winds swept by with mournful blast,
And sigh'd through the plumes of the dead as he past,