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Singer: Juan D'ARIENZOSinger 2: Alberto EchagueComposer: Rafael IriarteAuthor: Julio Navarrine

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Lyrics
Arrímese al fogón, viejita, aquí a mi lado
y ensille un cimarrón para que dure largo;
atráquele esa astilla, que el fuego se ha apagado,
revuelva aquellas brasas y cebe bien amargo;
alcance esa guitarra de cuerdas empolvadas,
que tantas veces ella besó su diapasón,
y arránquele esa cinta, donde la desalmada
bordó, con sus engaños, mi gaucho corazón.

¿Usted lo recuerda, madrecita santa,
cómo la quería, cómo yo la amé?
¡Que he dado mi vida, mi daga y mi manta!...
Y, sin embargo, madre, la ingrata se fue...
Apague esa leña, que mi vista daña...
Los ojos me lloran... Yo no sé por qué...
Pues quiero olvidarla, ahogándome en caña,
y quiero estar cerca, cerquita de usted...

No llore, madrecita, no aumente más mi pena
y séquese esas lágrimas que me hacen tanto mal… 
Y cébeme otro amargo... Y ponga yerba buena
que, mientras, yo a la caña le pongo otro bozal...
Después, cuando la noche envuelva los bañados
y se oiga, allá, a lo lejos, el toque de oración,
inclínese a la Virgen de los Desamparados
y a mi pobre guitarra colóquele un crespón...
English translation
Come to the stove, old lady, here by my side
and saddle a cimarrón to make it last long;
catch him that splinter, that the fire has gone out,
stir up those embers and make it very bitter;
reach for that guitar of powdered strings,
that so many times she kissed its fretboard,
and tear off that ribbon, where the soulless one
embroidered, with her deceits, my gaucho heart.

Do you remember, holy little mother?
how I loved her, how I loved her?
That I gave my life, my dagger and my blanket!....
And yet, mother, the ungrateful one left....
Put out that firewood, which harms my sight.....
My eyes are watering... I don't know why...
Well, I want to forget her, drowning myself in cane..,
and I want to be close, close to you...

Don't cry, little mother, don't increase my sorrow any more
and dry those tears that make me so bad...
And drink me another bitter one... And put some good yerba mate
and in the meantime, I'll put another muzzle on the cane...
Afterwards, when the night envelops the marshlands
and you hear, there, in the distance, the call to prayer,
bow down to the Virgin of the Forsaken ones
and to my poor guitar, put a crepe on it...

The Cabeceo