Haste! mother, haste! smoke blackens the blue sky,
Pescara comes, oh, whither shall we fly?
I see his band beyond those olive trees,
I hear his trumpets braying in the breeze;
There are none here beside but you and I-
Haste! mother, haste! oh, whither shall we fly!
Fear not, my daughter, 'tis our land to save
From foreign tyrants, that his banners wave;
To chase the French, that o'er our counties ride,
And sweep their lilies from our river's side:
They'll harm you not, and once you lov'd a lance,
And the gay greeting of a soldier's glance.
Yes, but that lance ne'er rode in Spanish ranks,
'Tis all alike, while o'er our valley pranks
Frenchman or Spaniard, and our native lords
Whet for a stranger's vassalage their swords.
I'll to the mountain, his guerilla's there,
Let these avengers follow, if they dare.