Your horse is faint, my king, my lord, your gallant horse is sick,1
His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick ;2
Mount, mount on mine, oh mount apace, I pray thee mount and fly,3
Or in my arms I’ll lift your grace—their trampling hoofs are nigh.4
My king, my king, you’re wounded sore, the blood runs from your feet,5
But only lay your hand before, and. I’ll lift ye to your seat ;6
Mount, Juan, mount—the Moors are near, I hear them Arab cry,7
Oh mount and fly for jeopardy, I’ll save ye though I die.8
Stand noble steed this hour of need, be gentle as a lamb,9
I’ll kiss the foam from off thy mouth, thy master dear I am ;10
— Mount, Juan, ride, whate’er betide, away the bridle fling,11
And plunge the rowels in his side—Bavieca save my king.12


King Juan’s horse fell lifeless—Don Raymon’s horse stood by,13
Nor king nor lord would mount him, they both prepare to die ;14
’Gainst the same tree their backs they placed—they hacked the king in twain,15
Don Raymon’s arms the corpse embraced, and so they both were slain.—16
But when the Moor Almazor beheld what had been done,17
He oped Lord Raymon’s visor, while’ down his tears did run ;18
He oped his visor, stooping then he kissed the forehead cold,19
God grant may ne’er to Christian men this Moorish shame be told.20