She sitteth still who used to dance,
She weepeth sore and more and more--
Let us sit with thee weeping sore,
    O fair France!

  She trembleth as the days advance
Who used to be so light of heart:--
We in thy trembling bear a part,
    Sister France!

  Her eyes shine tearful as they glance:
"Who shall give back my slaughtered sons?
"Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."--
    Alas, France!

  She struggles in a deathly trance,
As in a dream her pulses stir,
She hears the nations calling her,
    "France, France, France!"

  Thou people of the lifted lance,
Forbear her tears, forbear her blood:
Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood,
    Back from France.

  Eye not her loveliness askance,
Forge not for her a galling chain;
Leave her at peace to bloom again,
    Vine-clad France.

  A time there is for change and chance,
A time for passing of the cup:
And One abides can yet bind up
    Broken France.

  A time there is for change and chance:
Who next shall drink the trembling cup,
Wring out its dregs and **** them up
    After France?