La huasteca is in mourning Its huapanguero has died You can no longer hear that falsetto Which is the soul of the troubadour. Rogaciano he was called Rogaciano the huapanguero And they were sones of the sierra mountains The songs of the troubadours. Azucena and Cecilia Are crying, crying inconsolably Malaguena Salerosa* Their bard has gone. The cane is ready Today begins the milling The sugar mill is in mourning And sighs with each turn. In the green coffee plantations Far beyond that pasture There are those who say that in the nighttime The huapanguero appears. Azucena and Cecilia Are crying, crying inconsolably Malaguena Salerosa* Their bard has left.