Coming from Matins with old men's escort.

Ask them, ye watchers, inquire their elation,
Tell them ye wonder they bear them so brave.
Proudly they'll answer, 'La belle France, our nation,
Requires us to suffer, our country to save.'

To save from the maw of the great avaricious,
The cold scheming brain of a commerce run mad--
A commerce all-grasping and sordid and vicious;
For this are we martyred, for this are we glad.

Then the soul of the Springtime, the great resurrection,
Shines bright in their faces, they wave to the car,
Packed tight with our comrades, a cheery collection,
As we dash thro' the streets to the trenches afar.

And France comes to meet us, to cheer us and greet us,
As we race past the fields to the woods brightly green,
Whose young leaves half rustle with a great show of bustle
When we halt at the fairest of spots ever seen.[1]

Where the old kings of history, now shrouded in myst'ry,
Once hunted the boar, or the feather, or fur.
But we feel this is over as we wade thro' the clover,
No tyrant again in this great wood shall stir.

For France now demands it; however she stands it,
However those brave ones in thousands can smile,
Requires some explaining, so cease all complaining,