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The songs belonged to the homeland

1.

The paths, the mountain forests,
the hearty dreams, the fields,
the nostalgic songs, the night air’s cold,
the pastures, the pines, the streams,
the promises, the triumphs, the movement,
the sweet expectations, the trails;
everything offers nostalgia and diligence,
everything brings bright memories.
My departed youth, dear
friends, and my childhood as well,
for you to be forgotten by me
grief has no power, distance means nothing;
cold iron is useless, so too the years,
They can’t erase my memories, my loyalty:
because in this world all love perishes,
don’t forget the one who doesn’t forget you.

2.

This is the land of Xallas,
this is Arantón Bridge,
these are the fields, these
are the same solitudes, yes;
they’re all, all the same,
but I am not, not the same.
These are the same places;
these are the same lands
These are the same paths;
this is the bridge, this the river,
this is its desolation:
these are are the same heather plants,
but I am not, not the same.
When I arrived here
my heart was happy;
now it’s become sad,
because everything’s over for me,
it’s all changed, it’s all changed
from what it once was!
Everything, everything has changed,
except you, bridge of Arantón:
of course, you are the same as ever,
but I am no longer the same.


3.

Souls that are slaves,
to ideas that are not great,
Are thinking about womanly things,
soft and dreadful;
forging a thousand dreams
that exhaust the spirit,
dragging horrible chains,
like weak serfs;
soft spirits,
women’s spirits,
sedentary, slowly consumed
by morbid fever.
But the soul of the bard,
energetic, daring,
that bold freedom
the only thing he dreams of and loves,
thinks of ironclad goals
that constructed the nation!

4.

Ragged
and good Galicians,
you are the example
of suffering,
children of the Celts,
children of the Swabians
you were excluded
from the banquet,

while your
wretched relatives,
clumsily burping,
hfat and full,
sharp barbs
they hurled at you
Injured and placed in a ring
like starving dogs
awaiting the sound
of a miserable breadcrust
say with me,
rebuked and rough hewn Galicians,
say with me:
“Either honor or death!”

Robust children
of the harsh wind
that makes Castilians
lose their minds
on cold
winter days;
children of the fog,
children of the northwesterly wind,
of whom it was said,
in an idiotic saying,
“They were weak
lacking in glory,”
say it with me
maligned and rude Galicians,
say it with me:
“Either honor… or iron!”

The people who
in an ancient time
were the noble support
of the weak Goths,
because fleeing
out of clumsy fear
facing the dark
Hagarene band,
the rushing feet
showing the wind
they met resistance
in your steel,
and you showed them,
face toward them,
how the homeland
is defended,
say with me,
indomitable and rough-hewn Galicians,
say it with me:
“Either honor… or iron!”

Oh! I wish I had
the fierce tones
of the rough cords
of bold *Tirteo;
the noble songs
of good Cheochenko,
the servant Ukrania*
eminent offspring;
the simple pesma songs
of the Serbian band;
from mountainous Cernagora
the great feats ,
to inspire you
to great efforts,
like the nation’s
fields and the
high pines of Corcoesto said:

“Say it with me,
stubborn and rough-hewn Galicians,
say it with me:
Either honor… or death!”

5.

When the hard axes
wound the tall pines
and fall with thunder
on the ground of Bergantiños;
they don’t fall in vain, no,
like giants on their feet,
without glory and without fame,
in their wild fields.

But when they fall, freeing
the fragrant pine cones
that spread through the woods,
among the native trees
and rise again from the seed.
Descendants with pride.

So, when they fell,
those fearless ones
with noble ideals,
their good hearts full:
they didn’t fall without reason
into humiliating oblivion;
like most men,
extinguished in darkness.

But soaking the earth
with their bright blood.
The fields of Suevia,
noble asylum of the Celts;
did not surrender to death,
and proudly left
the undying seed
of children to take revenge.

Irrational despots,
forge, forge shackles:
iron can oppress,
a weakened body, its strength gone.
But noble ideas
and glorious instincts
Those… neither hard iron, nor death
can cut them down.

6.

The time of the Celtic bards
has arrived,
it has come from your
peaceful fields.
Don’t be headstrong,
ignorant and slow-witted;
show your strong,
intrepid hearts:
sharpen your scythes,
sharpen, Galicians.

The golden shafts
of the Celtic fields
flutter and moan,
with the wind that blows.
Face the battle,
and use good judgment,
and don’t fall short
in the great efforts
The noble examples
of your ancestors:
harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.

Don’t look back,
harvest altogether;
don’t turn
your dark faces away.
Let people say,
when they see your effort:
“Surely those men
are like devils.”
Harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.

Turn your scythes,
turn them with agility,
let them loose a thousand wild
bolts into the air.
Spit on the handles
with the spit of hell,
bend your bodies
of oak and steel…
Harvest with strength,
harvest, Galicians.

7.

They thought their language
was a language of slaves.
They had forgotten how the nation spoke,
longing and gentle.

They were ashamed
of their own speech;
when children they spoke like
serfs and helots.

They’d erased the soft,
happy tones because
they were odd servant words
ignorant and unknowing.

The mother suffering so
with her somber misery,
thought her own people
were strangers,
and heard her children speaking
the language of servants.

8.
What do the murmuring pines say
there by the greening coast
in the transparent gleaming
of the placid moonlight?
What do the lofty crests
of dark, serrate needles say
speaking with their cadence
in monotonous whispers.

Girded by your greenery
and by your gentle stars
oh you, land of verdant hillforts
and a courageous clan
you must never forget
the hard anger of insults
awaken from your slumber
oh hearth of Breogán.

The good and the generous
they understand our words
and they're listening, enthralled,
to our cavernous sound.
Because only the ignorant
the hardened and the rude
the imbecile and the obscure
don't understand us, they don't.

The time has finally come
for the bards of all ages
for your doubt and uncertainty
is soon coming to an end
because our great voice is everywhere
crying out the proclamation
demanding redemption for the good
nation of Breogán.

You have wandering sons
Whose hearts hear the call of honor
to go boldly into combat,
their hearts facing forward;
let your own strength free you
from wretched servitude
and disgraceful soubriquets
oh, region of Breogán.

Open arms of friendship
to noble Lusitania
to the most ancient farmlands
with determined desire;
and answer the uncertainty
of your murmuring pines
with their marvelous destiny,
oh, nation of Breogán!

The love of green land,
of green lands that are ours,
ignites the courageous race
of Ouside and Froxán;
there where clad in strong
bodice, lightly defined,
are the sweet, white breasts
of the daughters of Breogán;

let them teach their noble offspring
to speak with the strongest of sounds,
not with the softened harmonies
that are befitting only of virgins;
but instead, the robust echoes
- well you remember, oh homeland! -
of the melodious strings
of the harps of Breogán.

Respect cannot be gotten
with a soft and weakened moan,
begging for what they desire
in a voice to be forgotten;
a giant clamor is necessary,
sublime and resembling
the courageous sound
of the arms of Breogán.

Galicians, you must be strong,
ready to accomplish great feats;
harness your bodies
to a glorious desire;
sons of the noble Celts,
strong, on your pilgrimage,
you must fight for the future
of the lands of Breogán.