Awake, awake, the trumpet hath sung its lay to the sunny sky,
And the glorious shout from Spanish lips gives forth its wild reply.
Awake, awake, how the chargers foam, as to battle they dash on,
Oh, Zaragoza, on this proud day, must thy walls be lost or won!

His hand—the hand of the youthful chief was on his flashing sword,
And his plume gleam'd white thro' the smoke and flame o'er the lofty
city pour'd—
And the banners around him darkly swept like the waves of a stormy sea,
But Zaragoza, amid this strife, his heart was firm to thee.

'Away, away, tread her walls to dust!'—the Gallic warriors cried
'Defend, my bands, your hearth and home,' the youthful chief replied.
They caught the sound of this spirit-voice as they stay'd their foes'
career,
And many a thrilling cry was heard, when the bayonet met the spear

In vain, ye heroes, do you breathe your latest vows to heaven,
In vain is your devoted blood in the cause of Freedom given,
For when the morn awakes again, your city shall not be
The haunt of maids who warbled deep, their sweetest songs for ye!

But the story of your hallow'd death shall not remain unsung,
Oh, its record shall be glorified by many a minstrel tongue
For Freedom's holy light hath touch'd each ruin'd shrine and wall,
That sadly speak unto the heart of Zaragoza's fall.