Ye sons of France, awake to glory, Hark, hark what myriads bid you rise, Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries! Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, While peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms! To arms, ye brave! Th' avenging sword unsheath! March on, march on, all hearts resolved To victory or death. Now, now the dangerous storm is scowling Which treacherous kings, confederate, raise; The dogs of war, let loose, are howling, And lo! our fields and cities blaze. And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force, with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands embruing? With luxury and pride surrounded, The vile, insatiate despots dare, Their thirst of power and gold unbounded, To mete and vend the light and air; Like beasts of burden would they load us, Like gods would bid their slaves adore: But man is man, and who is more? Then, shall they longer lash and goad us? O Liberty! can man resign thee! Once having felt thy gen'rous flame? Can dungeon, bolts, and bars confine thee, Or whips thy noble spirit tame? Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. --_Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle._ This is perhaps the most famous song in the world. Not because it is sung more frequently than any other song, but because it has about it in title, romantic story, and fervor, something that has touched the heart of mankind and inspired for it a respect and admiration in all civilized lands. Its author, Rouget de Lisle, was a young artillery officer who had a fancy for newspaper writing, and had contributed a number of articles to a newspaper in Strasburg owned by the mayor of the city. He dined one evening at his great friend's house, and the conversation turned on the departure of several hundred volunteers from the town of Strasburg to the Army of the Rhine. There were to be public ceremonies connected with the departure of the troops, and Mayor Dietrich urged young De Lisle to write a martial song to be sung on that occasion. He consented and went at once from supper to his room. The weather was bitter cold, but he sat down at the piano, and between reciting and playing and singing, eventually composed the _Marseillaise_, and, thoroughly exhausted, fell asleep with his head on his desk.