Are met to flout the Old Year out and fête the New Year in.
With war-stains dim on robe and limb, fresh scars on cheek and brow,
France strives to look as though no pains could crush, no losses bow:
But her glance is quick and restless, and her hands are never still,
As one that, fevered inly, masks but masters not her ill.
As if in mock of Christmas wreaths,—their "peace, good-will to men"—
What fierce hate in her eyes whene'er proud Prussia meets their ken!
Prussia that, stern and stately, her great sword, laurel-wreathed,
Bears wary, so, 'tis hard to know if bare the blade, or sheathed.
So light and lithe that stalwart frame in movement or at rest,