Classic Poem

My old companions in our days
Of glory greet me here;
Drunk with remembrances, the wine
Hath made my memory clear:
Proud of my own exploits and theirs,
My flag my straw-thatched cottage shares.
Ah! when shall I shake off the dust
In which its noble colors rust?

Beneath the straw, where poor and maimed
I sleep, 'tis hid from view:
That flag, for twenty years, from fight
To fight, triumphant flew;
And decked with laurels and with flowers,
Blazed forth before all Europe's powers
Ah! when shall I shake off the dust
In which its noble colors rust?

All, all our blood, that it hath cost,
This flag repaid to France;
Our sons, on Liberty's broad breast,
Have sported with its lance:
Let it once more make tyrants own,
That Glory is plebeian grown!
Ah! when shall I shake off the dust
In which its noble colors rust?

It's eagle is laid low, worn out
By many a distant deed:
Up with the Gallic cock! — that, too,
The thunderbolt could speed!
France shall forget her late distress,
And, proud and free, that emblem bless.
Ah! when shall I shake off the dust
In which its noble colors rust?

Weary of Victory's wandering course,
The laws it then shall aid:
Of soldiers once, beside the Loire,
Good citizens it made.
Our troubles this can hide alone —
Along our borders be it shown!
Ah! when shall I shake off the dust
In which its noble colors rust?

But it is here, beside my arms;
One glance I'll dare bestow;
Come forth, my flag! my hope! and bid
My tears no longer flow —
When tears bedew the warrior's eye,
In pity Heaven will hear his cry;
Yes! yes! I will shake off the dust
In which thy noble colors rust!