La Pancha Alfaro

The moon hangs low in the sky of the cueca,
watching the dust flower bloom.

The party's at Pancha Alfaro's place
and the wine's flowing in the yard.

The voice of the singers is burning bright,
Pancha's got a bud in her hair.

The singer cries out verses at dawn,
cleanse your love, with your handkerchief, her face.

The light rises with the roosters' crowing
and at daybreak, Pancha Alfaro's dancing.