Viejo Cencerro (Milonga)

Cowbell, old ranch hand
From the Argentine fields
Bird sowing trills
With a voice of bronze and steel
Unpaid peon, herdsmen

Obedient to your call
The herd gathers
That, following the lead mare
Marches with discipline
Following your bugle call

In the old days, at dawn
When the colts grazed
And the gauchos listened
To the sound of your little music
The 'vidalita' was born

To fly in a whistle
You have traveled all over the south
Your Creole and crystalline voice
Voice of the Argentine pampas
Voice of beloved memories

Cowbell, southern bugle
Old poet of bronze
Tell me about those times
When my dream was a child
And singing with determination

Attached to the lead mare
Bring me in your tuning voice
Messages of tradition
With a taste of grass and campfire
Of an Argentine milonga

Now that you're retired
In my ranch a little corner
From time to time a shout
Can be heard if they have touched you
Alert the old soldier

The language of the pampas returns
That's why no one stops
Your sonorous iron voice
And may a cowbell live
Let the 'gauchaje' vibrate