He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, And through the street directs his course; Through the street of Zacatin To the Alhambra spurring in.
Woe is me, Alhama !
When the Alhambra walls he gained, On the moment he ordained That the trumpet straight should sound With the silver clarion round.
Woe is me, Alhama !
And when the hollow drums of war Beat the loud alarm afar, That the Moors of town and plain Might answer to the martial strain
Woe is me, Alhama !
Then the Moors, by this aware, That bloody Mars recalled them there One by one, and two by two, To a mighty squadron grew.
Woe is me, Alhama!
Out then spake an aged Moor In these words the king before, 'Wherefore call on us, O King? What may mean this gathering? '
Woe is me, Alhama !
'Friends! ye have, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow;
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