Cantès pas per iev,
Cantès per ma mia
Qu’es auprès de iev.
Here are the lads of Languedoc, Nîmes, Montpellier, the vine growers of the plains, the carters of Aiguesmortes, the harvesters of Toulouse all carried away by the evocation of their homeland.
Oh! the beautiful song! How it puts heart into one; more beautiful than the most martial hymn composed in the harsh technique of the ink pots.
It is the living expression, simple, spontaneous, natural, of the people, the family and the soil. It carries in it the remembrances of happy childhood, of loves bathed in sunshine, the radiant nuptials in the mystery of light and flowers. It speaks of the loved pastures, the paternal roof, the farm, the herds, the vines ... and that is the Patrie.
Oh! the beautiful song! It dissipates dark thoughts, fears, uncertainties; it makes lovers and heroes, electrifies them, and increases their strength a hundred fold. They are the lads of Provence and Languedoc who spread through the world the triumphal “Marseillaise.” They are the same lads who despite the mud and the dark night breathe in their memory and in the song the re-vivifying breath of their “little” country, who in pursuit of the routed enemy make the “Marseillaise” victorious again, victorious alway.
At the end of the village in a house at the side of the road to Chuignolles, a feeble light filters through the canvas which takes the place of shutters.
The officers are quartered here. Lieutenant Casanova is stretched out on a mattress on the ground, smoking and dreaming over his eternal cigarette. Lieutenant Delpos leaning on a box which serves him for a table, is reading, by the light of a lantern, an illustrated novel.