What do the rumorous ones
On the resplendent green coastland
Say to the transparent ray
Of placid, bright moonlight?
What do the tall treetops
Of spiked, dark needles say
With their regular, rhythmic,
Monotonous rumble?

"Girded by your greenery
And by benign celestial bodies,
Bounds of the green ancient-hill-forts
And courageous plain:
Do not strain to forget the offense
With rude stubbornness,
Awake from your slumber,
Home of Breogán.

"The good and generous ones
Understand our voice
And with delight listen
To our droning sound,
But only the ignorant ones
And coarse and cruel ones,
Imbeciles and unenlightened ones
Do not understand us, no.

"The time of the ages
Of bards has arrived
When your vague fancies will find
Ultimate fulfillment
For everywhere gigantic
Our voice proclaims
The redemption of the good
Nation of Breogán.

"Your vigorous sons
In whom honour alone beats
Brace themselves
For fearless combat.
Free yourself
From shameful servitude
And scurrilous soubriquet,
Region of Breogán.

"Open your arms in friendship
With prodding ambition
To the noble Lusitania—
To the home fields of long ago—
And realize the vague notions
Of your noisy pine trees
About some magical destinies,
O host of Breogán!

"Love of the verdant land—
Of our verdant land—
Arouses the spirited race of
Ousinde and of Froxán
And remote in their beautiful
Bodices, ill-constrained,
The soft and white breasts
Of the daughters of Breogán.

"Let them teach their noble children
Very firm manners of speech,
Not delicate songs which
Are fit only for virgins,
Rather the robust echoes
You well remember o homeland!
From the sounding strings
Of the harps of Breogán.

"Esteem is not earned
With an abject, meek moan,
Beseeching some request
In a tone they will forget,
But with a gigantic rumour
Sublime and similar unto
The intrepid clamour
Of the weapons of Breogán.

"Be strong, Galicians,
Disposed to great deeds.
Bind your chest
To glorious strife,
Sons of the noble Celts
Strong and pilgrim,
Fight for the destinies
Of the home fields of Breogán."