Out of the south Al-Andalus' flame
Bitter reproach despite the rules of the game,
Regret thee not the pilgrimage made from thy land...
Hadrian's homeland from here he came,
Sleepy Italica on a rustic plane...
The Alcazar, much written of you hast been
A quiet shady spot below the green
The weeping wail of a guitar did there pass...
There calle Betis was found
That for which Hispalis is well renowned
With your feet stomping the ground...
The dancing girls swing their way
On you their eyes curl and play...
The procession moves on
The pace past applaudable...
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