La Mazorquera de Monserrat

Fifteen years old, spring arrived
In the red year of the city,
And they called her 'the butcher'
In the whole neighborhood of Monserrat.

Her eyes were black, traitorous,
And they hurt like a dagger,
And the restoring sergeants
Dedicated her this song:

'Protect the life of the one who loves you
Because a hundred daggers will seek him out
For your butcher-like loves
In the parish of Monserrat...'

Under the shawl, red, bloody,
Her lips laughed even more
And the sergeants' guitars
Sighed like this again:

'For your loves, I would slit throats
Even the most federal porteño!
Juan Manuel himself would adore you,
Oh, butcher of Monserrat!'

And it was a jealous, crazy sergeant
Who wounded one afternoon with his dagger,
The red dagger of her hundred sorrows,
The butcher of Monserrat.

Full of blood, as she was dying,
An image fell from her shawl,
And in the sigh of her agony
The butcher thought he heard

These words, hoarse, tearful:
'I only loved you...' and as she breathed her last
She kissed the rosy face in the image
The butcher of Monserrat.