The Battle of Ivry

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all
glories are!
And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of
Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and the
dance.
Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, pleasant
land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of
the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning
daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy
walls annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance
of war,
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre!

O, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of
day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long
array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appeiizell's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish
spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of
our land!
And dark. Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in
his hand;
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's
empurpled flood,
And good Culigni's hoary hair all dabbled with his
blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate
of war,
To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The king is come to marshal us, in all liis armor drest;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant
crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern
and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing
to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our
lord the King!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he
may,—
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,—
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the
ranks of war.
And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled
din
Of fife and steed, and trump and drum, and roaring
culverin!
The fiery duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of
France,
Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them with the
lance !
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears
in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snowwhite
crest;
Aud in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a
guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath
turned his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count
is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a
Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and
cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our
van,
" Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man
to man;
But out spake gentle Henry," No Frenchman is my
foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren
go."
0, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna! Ho! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never
shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor
spearmen's souls!
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms
be bright!
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward
to-night!
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath
raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of
the brave.
Then glory to his holy name, from whom all glories
are;
And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of Navarre!