"Rise up, rise up, thou hoary head, What madness causes thy delay? Thou killest swine on Thursday morn, And eatest flesh on fasting day. "'Tis now seven years since first I trod The valley and the wandering wood; My feet were bare, my flesh was torn, And all my pathway stained in blood. "Ah, mournfully I seek in vain The Emperor's daughter, who had gone A prisoner made by caitiff Moors, Upon the morning of St. John. "She gathered flowers upon the plain, She plucked the roses from the spray, And in the orchard of her sire They found and bore the maid away." These words has Moriana heard, Close nestled in the Moor's embrace; The tears that welled from out her eyes Have wet her captor's swarthy face. THE WARDEN OF MOLINA 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; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Now leave your feasts and banquetings and gird you in your steel! And leave the couches of delight, where slumber's charm you feel; Your country calls for succor, all must the word obey, For the freedom of your fathers is in your hands to-day. Ah, sore may be the struggle, and vast may be the cost; But yet no tie of love must keep you now, or all is lost. In breasts where honor dwells there is no room in times like these To dally at a lady's side, kneel at a lady's knees. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe. "Yes, in the hour of peril away with pleasure's thrall! Let honor take the lance and steed to meet our country's call. For those who craven in the fight refuse to meet the foe Shall sink beneath the feet of all struck by a bitterer blow; In moments when fair honor's crown is offered to the brave And dangers yawn around our State, deep as the deadly grave, 'Tis right strong arms and sturdy hearts should take the sword of might, And eagerly for Fatherland descend into the fight. To arms, to arms, my captains! Sound, clarions; trumpets, blow; And let the thundering kettle-drum Give challenge to the foe.