O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,
Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:
Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,—
See the Carlist blades are shining.
They come with murdering dirk in hand,
Death, ruin, rapine in their train:
To arms! rouse up and clear the land,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Your sires were great in ancient days,
No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,
And to these fiends your heads be bowing?
They strove for fame and liberty
On fields where blood was shed like rain:
Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Castille and Arragon, arise!
A treacherous Popish war is brewing:
Tear of the bandage from your eyes,
Are ye asleep while this is doing?
They come! Their prelates lead them on:
They carry with them thraldom’s chain.
Up! and crush their cursed Don;
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
Go forth, through every well-known spot;
O’er field and forest, rock and river:

Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,
Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.
Do you fear the priestly hosts
Who march them on with proud disdain;
Back! send home their shrieking ghosts,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Thou surely art not sunk so low
That strangers can alone restore thee:
No; Europe waits the final blow,
When superstition flies before thee.
For Spanish might through Spanish hands
Their freedom only can restrain,
Then sweep these Carlists from the land,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.