Mágoa de Boiadeiro

In the past, not even in dreams existed
So many bridges over the rivers, nor asphalt on the roads
We used four or five mules
To bring the cowboy in the cattle drive
But nowadays everything is very different
Progress, our people, don't even have an idea
That among others, I was a cowboy
On this Brazilian land, the heroes of the epic

I miss seeing in the small towns
The girls at the windows waving a flower
For all this, I lament and confess
That the march of progress is my great pain
Every big truck I see loaded
Transporting a herd, it tightens my heart
And when I look at my gear hanging
I laugh sadly to not cry out of passion

My horse neighing in the field
Which surely also cries in the saddest loneliness
My pair of spurs, my wide-brimmed hat
A pack saddle, a horn, and a machete
The old saddle, my cowboy lasso
The Polish and the packhorse, my handkerchief and jacket
Only the moneyless pouch remains
Of this poor cowboy who lost his profession

I'm not a poet, I'm just a countryman
And the theme that inspires me is the cowboy's grit
Almost crying, meditating on this sorrow
I scribbled these words and this song came out
A song that speaks of the longing for the inns
That I made with the cowboys by the fire of a shed
Crazy longing to hear the hoarse sound of a horn
Lazy in the depths of my backcountry