Rogaciano

The Huasteca is in mourning
Their huapanguero has died.
No more do we hear that falsetto
That was the soul of the troubadour.

Rogaciano was his name
Rogaciano, the huapanguero
And the sounds from the mountains
Were the songs of the troubadour.

The lily and the cecilia
Cry, cry without comfort
Malagueña salerosa
Has lost its herald.

The cane field is just right
Today the grinding begins
The mill is in mourning
And sighs with every turn.

Through the green coffee fields
Beyond that pasture
Some say that at night
The huapanguero appears.

The lily and the cecilia
Cry, cry without comfort
Malagueña salerosa
Has lost its huapanguero.