Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French.
From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm,
From mountain village, or town's crowded mart,
When first the Toscin shrilled its fierce alarm,
Gladly you rushed to play your noble part.
Oh, Sons of France! How quickly you forgot
The easy comfort of your tranquil life;
When high and low have shared a common lot
There is no room for friction or for strife.
Beneath the August sun, two years ago,