And through the night, on foot and horse, the sleepless summons flew, And morning saw the Lily-flag wide waving o'er Poitou; And many an ancient musketoon was taken from the wall, And many a jovial hunter's steed was harness'd in the stall; And many a noble's armoury gave up the sword and spear, And many a bride, and many a babe, was left with kiss and tear; And many a homely peasant bade "farewell" to his old "dame;" As in the days, when France's king unfurl'd the Oriflame. There, leading his bold marksmen, rode the eagle-eyed Lescure, And dark Stofflet, who flies to fight as falcon to the lure; And fearless as the lion roused, but gentle as the lamb, Came, marching at his people's head, the brave and good Bonchamps. Charette, where honour was the prize, the hero sure to win; And there, with Henri Quatre's plume, the young Rochejaquelin. And there, in peasant speech and garb--the terror of the foe, A noble made by Heaven's own hand, the great Cathelineau. We march'd by tens of thousands, we march'd through day and night, The Lily standard in our front, like Israel's holy light. Around us rush'd the rebels, as the wolf upon the sheep, We burst upon their columns, as the lion roused from sleep; We tore the bayonets from their hands, we slew them at their guns, Their boasted horsemen flew like chaff before our forest-sons; That eve we heap'd their baggage high their lines of dead between, And in the centre blazed to heaven their blood-dyed Guillotine! In vain they hid their heads in walls; we rush'd on stout Thouar,-- What cared we for its shot or shell, for battlement or bar? We burst its gates; then, like the wind, we rush'd on Fontenaye-- We saw its flag at morning's light, 'twas ours by setting day. We crush'd, like ripen'd grapes, Montreuil, we tore down old Vetier-- We charged them with our naked breasts, and took them with a cheer. We'll hunt the robbers through the land, from Seine to sparkling Rhone. Now, "Here's a health to all we love. Our King shall have his own." This song had an interest for me, independent of the spirit of the performer. It revived recollections of the noblest scene of popular attachment and faithful fortitude since the days of chivalry. I heard in it the names of all the great leaders of the Royalist army--names which nothing but the deepest national ingratitude will ever suffer France to forget; and it gave a glance at the succession of those gallant exploits by which the heroic peasantry and gentlemen of Anjou and Poitou had gained their imperishable distinction.