And the death-shots whistle.
Of rights for which our swords outspring,
Shall Angoulême bereave us?
We’ve plucked a bird of nobler wing—
The eagle could not brave us.
Follow, follow!
Shake the Spanish blade, and sing—
France shall ne’er enslave us:
Tyrants shall not brave us.
Shall yonder rag, the Bourbon’s flag,