Each year his mighty armies marched forth in gallant show, Their enemies were targets, their bullets they were tow.

Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! For me her constant flame appears; The garland she hath culled, I wear On brows bald since my thirty years. Ye veils that deck my loved one rare, Fall, for the crowning triumph's nigh. Ye Gods! but she is wondrous fair! And I, so plain a man am I!

Adieu! 'tis love's last greeting, The parting hour is come! And fast thy soul is fleeting To seek its starry home.

Gaily! gaily! close our ranks! Arm! Advance! Hope of France! Gaily! gaily! closed our ranks! Onward! Onward! Gauls and Franks!

Our friends, the enemy. [Fr., Nos amis, les ennemis.]

It is better to decide a difference between enemies than friends, for one of our friends will certainly become an enemy and one of our enemies a friend.