Hits are hard, fries are heavy
The christian's torment, is great
Up to the fourth assault, everything's been all right
After words the fifith, one was heavy and serious
The french riders, have been killed by us
The lesser sixty, whom god has saved
The count who sees, the massacre of theirs pities
His nation and invokes, the king!
With punishment and worry
He plays the horn
The brain is bursting
The mouth is bleeding.

The mountains are great
The sound goes over thirty leagues, it feel himself
The king heard it, and his departments agonizing soul, full of pain
The arms shields, it painted, humans flag, and frost the wind
The emperor rides with sorrow
And the army is aching, for the count.
His men are fighting
The horn ask for help
Ones wear the weapons
Ones launch screams of war!

The tenebrous mountains are great
The valley is deep, the water is fast
They play the imperial trumpets
In competition with the horn
There is nobody who doesn't cry
And despair grows and it increases on the battleground
Of everything we need cares
They are too late, they will never arrive.