All that one can see is, face to face,
intrepid squadrons bent on making war,
bloody fluids staining the green earth,
and everyone pursuing honor's game;

this is the lovely sound that all can hear:
"For Spain, Saint James, close ranks, attack, attack!
And as a pleasing scent to foul the air,
sulphur smoke ignites with burning flame;

one's taste, now compromised, seeks out unclean
water, and touch can only grope and finds
in bloodied steel a trophy hard as stone,

splintered bone, within it rotted flesh,
mangled armor, torn-up coats of mail:
oh, noble state, worthy of men alone!