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 the corn-fields 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 murmuring
            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 turned the chance
           of war! 
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre!

II.

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 looked on them, we thought of Seine’s
         empurpled flood,
And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate
         of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

III.

The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed; And he has bound a snow white plume upon his gallant
crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.  Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled 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 I saw promise yet of such a bloody fray—­ Press where you see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.”

IV.

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 Saint-Andre’s plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne 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 rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

V.