FLEUR-DE-LIS
IN France there are no white lilies,
They are stained with blood of her sons,
Who have answered her cry to her children
With roar of their Liberty guns.
They are stained with blood of her sons,
Who have answered her cry to her children
With roar of their Liberty guns.
Adown the far length of the ages
Which into the past have flown,
As white as a pageant of phantoms
The paschal lilies have blown.
Which into the past have flown,
As white as a pageant of phantoms
The paschal lilies have blown.
But France—the land that they symbol,
Once filled with laughter and dream—
There, in the reek of the battle
They have lost their radiant gleam.
Once filled with laughter and dream—
There, in the reek of the battle
They have lost their radiant gleam.
They have bloomed on her unfurled banners,
Waving defiance to Mars,
They have signaled from off her high altars,
Up to the answering stars.
Waving defiance to Mars,
They have signaled from off her high altars,
Up to the answering stars.
But—in France are no white lilies,
They are red with blood of her sons,
Who have woven her mantle of glory
With smoke of her Victory guns!
They are red with blood of her sons,
Who have woven her mantle of glory
With smoke of her Victory guns!
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