La Pulpera de Santa Lucía

She was blonde and her heavenly eyes
Reflected the glories of the day
And she sang like a lark
The grocer of Santa Lucía

She was the flower of the old parish
Who was the gaucho that didn't love her?
The soldiers from four barracks
Sighed in the grocery store

The mazorquero troubadour sang to her
With a sweet moan of guitars
By the grille that smelled of jasmine
In the courtyard that smelled of damask roses

With my soul I love you, grocer
And someday you will have to be mine
While the guitars of Santa Lucía
Fill the neighborhood nights

She was taken by a troubadour from Lavalle
When the year forty was dying
Her heavenly eyes no longer shine
In the parish of Santa Lucía

The troops of Rosas did not return
To sing vidalas and skies to her
At the grille of the grocery store
The jasmines wept with jealousy

And the mazorquero troubadour returned
To sing in the empty courtyard
The mournful and final serenade
Carried away by the wind of the river

Where are you with your heavenly eyes?
Oh grocer who was not mine
How the guitars weep for you!
The guitars of Santa Lucía