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IVRY.

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

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 mourning 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 Flemish 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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"PRESS WHERE YE SEE MY WHITE PLUME SHINE."

To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor

drest,

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 roll'd 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, aınidst the ranks of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah!

the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 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

lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand 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 Navarre.

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 Navarre.

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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