The glowing heart of the land of Art, throbbing for Liberty,
Our swords invoke, to erase the yoke from beauteous Italy.
And the Magyar waits, with kindling hope, the aid of the Gallic hand,
To drive the hated Austrians forth, from the old Hungarian land.
Then advance, advance, ye sons of France, before the startled world,
For France, once more, her tricolor in triumph hath unfurled.
See the Briton, pale, as he dons his mail, for the coming conflict shock,
And before his eyes, see the phantom rise, of the Chief on Helena’s rock;
In foreboding fears, already he hears through palace and mart anew,
Our avenging shout, o’er the battle rout—remember Waterloo!