Classic Poem

Le bon Français

I like a Russian to be Russian;
The Englishman should English be;
And if in Prussia men are Prussian,
Frenchmen in France be we!
Whilst here our hearts are gushing o'er,
And can but count " one Frenchman more, "
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

To Charles the Fifth that monarch's fame —
So brave — a pang of envy cost,
Who at Pavia could exclaim,
" Save honor, all is lost!
These soothing words let's chant anew
To those whom numbers overthrew:
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

Louis, we're told, in memory bore
How Fate our hapless warriors crost,
Whose laurels withered but before
Stern winter's sternest frost
Fresh verdure shall those laurels gain,
Beside the lilies they'll sustain:
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

The fatal foe of England's power,
A king on bed of suffering laid,
Saved France, of old, in peril's hour,
Nor from his palace strayed:
We're sure, if any cause be seen,
That Louis knows on whom to lean
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

The Anglo-mania let us dread;
All hath it spoiled for us ere now:
To Germans let us not be led
In rules of taste to bow;
Nor borrow o'er our neighbors' lines
Aught — save their women and their wines!
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

Our glory's at the loftiest height:
Whom, Frenchmen, can we rivals call?
Our labors give mankind their light;
Our pleasures charm them all
Let us but have a joyous strain,
And, lo! the world once more in train!
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!

Good service to our land 'twill be,
Where fixed for ever, side by side,
The Loves, the Pleasures, Industry,
And the Fine Arts abide,
To love — for Louis says we may —
All Henri-Quatre loved in his day
Friends, friends, oh, faithful let us stand;
Aye faithful to our native land!