In the black moon
Home to the horseback bandits
Spurs ring a song:

"Woah black pony!
Whither with your dead rider are you going?"

These are the strong
Spurs of a stirless bandit
Whose reins are down:

"Woah cold pony
What a fragrance in the dagger's flower"

In the black moon
The side of Sierra Morena
Bled from a wound.

"Woah black pony!
Whither with your dead rider are you going?"

The night spurs
Its black flanks, spangling
Itself with stars:

"Woah cold pony!
What a fragrance in the dagger's flower"
In the black moon
A cry! And then the long
Deep bonfire horn.

"Woah black pony!
Whither with your dead rider are you going?"