Where’er we went, affection grew
In the coldest hearts, for you.
They knew you by your hurried tread;
They watched you from afar—they said,
O’er hill, o’er hold your small form shoot,
Like a meteor of the sky,
Fanny of the flying foot,
Fanny of the shining eye!
Bright Italia woo’d in vain,
Fields of France we sought again;