Aye, ’tis the true, the typic wine of France;
Aye, ’tis our heart that sparkles in our eyes,
And higher beats for every dire mischance;
It was the wit that made our fathers wise,
That made their valour gallant, gay,
When plumes were stirr’d by winds of waving swords,
And chivalry’s defiance spoke the words:
“À vous, Messieurs les Anglais, les premiers!”
Let the dull beer-apostle till he’s hoarse
Vent his small spleen and spite,
Fate fill his sleepless night
With nightmares of invincible remorse!
We sing Champagne, the sparkling soul of mirth,