Let Hidalgos be proud of their breed,
And strut in the streets of Madrid
The Ladrones who happy lives lead,
Were kings long before the great Cid
But the gay Ladrone
Was hurl'd from his throne,
And the dust of the earth he bit;
Till the luck comes round
No Ladrone will be found
As a monarch of Spain to sit.

Let señoras flash brilliant eyes
On the bold matador in the ring;
Of fans and snivelling sighs,
Let poets, well paid for it, sing;
But the gay Ladrone
Loves her alone,
Who for desperate deeds is fit;
When luck comes round,
She's the one to be found,
On the throne of the king to sit.