Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all

glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of

Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of

dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, O

pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city

of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourn

ing daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our

joy, For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought

thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah ! a single field hath turn’d the

chance of war, Hurrah ! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh, how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn

of day

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel

peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flem

ish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses

of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon

in his hand : And, as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's

empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his

blood ;

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To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of

Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his


gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his

eye; He look’d upon the traitors, and his glance was

stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rollid from

wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, “God save

our Lord, the King !” “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he

may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody

fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, ainidst

the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of


Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the

mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roar

ing culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. André's

plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Al

mayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of

France, Charge for the golden lilies ! upon them with the A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand

lance !

spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the

snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a

guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of


Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne

hath turn'd his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish

count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a

Biscay gale; The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags,

and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along

our van,

"Remember St. Bartholomew!" was pass'd from

man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, “ No Frenchman is my

foe : Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your

brethren go.” Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or

in war,

As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of

Navarre ? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought

for France to-day;

And many a lordly banner God gave them for a

prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in

fight; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet

white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath

ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of

false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host

may know

How God hath humbled the proud house which

wrought his Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their

loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of


Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who

never shall return. Ho! Philip, send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor

spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your

arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and

ward to-night. For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath

raised the slave,

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