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"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain   From your walls ring far and shrill, And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain    Shall grant you victory still.

"And gird my form with mail-array,   And set me on my steed, So go ye forth on your funeral-way,    And God shall give you speed.

"Go with the dead in the front of war,   All arm'd with sword and helm,5 And march by the camp of King Bucar,    For the good Castilian realm.

"And let me slumber in the soil   Which gave my fathers birth; I have closed my day of battle-toil,    And my course is done on earth."

—Now wave, ye glorious banners, wave!6 Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, And the arms, o'er the death-bed of the brave, Send forth a hollow sigh.