Milonga de los fortines

Milonga of a hundred fights
tempered like courage.
Cry of the deserted pampas
delivering its warning
with a singer's voice.
Milonga of sorrows lifted.
Nostalgia of the town.
Song that in a serene night
uncovers its prayer
behind the hearth.

Bugle of old victories
at the head of the troop,
with your vanguard of glory
you will be in history
song and laurel.
Sounds of beloved homeland
in the barracks' nights.
Sorrow of a beloved woman
who, finally afflicted,
ceased to be faithful.

Resound with your accents,
milonga of the battalion,
cries of old sergeants
carried by the wind
with the squadron.
And they return in the sounds
sharp of the bugle,
echoes of a thousand screams
that were lost
beyond the border.

The desert moans rolling
its rumors of hurricane...
The spears come charging
and they are waiting
for the Cross and the Dagger.
Glory of that commander
who never returned to the canton.
His russet beard is kissed
by the light of the moon
and the fire of the sun.