Sound the trumpet, roll the drum! Come in long procession, come! Come with sword and come with lance, Children of heroic France; Come from castle’s frowning wall, Come from the ancestral hall, Come, poor peasant, from thy shed, Cowled monk and crowned head! From the hamlet’s green retreat, From the city’s crowded street, From the proud Tuilleries’ door Let the royal escort pour; Duke and baron, king and queen, Gather to the august scene; In your purple pomp arrayed, Haste to swell the grand parade. Brow of snow and locks of gold, Matron, maiden, young and old! Sound the trumpets, roll the drum, For Napoleon’s ashes come! Sound the trumpet, roll the drum! Let the cannon be not dumb; Charge your black guns to the brim, Invalides! to welcome him! War-worn veterans, onward march To Etoiles’ towering arch. Let the column of Vendome, Let the Pantheon’s soaring dome, Champs de Mars and Elysees, Hear the clang of arms to-day; Let the Luxembourg once more Hear Napoleon’s cannon roar. Bring the eagles forth that flew O’er the field of Waterloo, Bring his tattered banners, red With the blood at Jena shed, Scorched with fire and torn with steel, Rent by battle’s crushing heel, When the fight o’er Moscow pealed, And Marengo’s sanguine field; Sound the clarion’s wildest strain, For the conqueror comes again! Sound a sad funereal wail For the warrior stark and pale! Hussar and dark cuirassier, Lancer and fierce grenadier; Soldiers of the Seine and Rhone, Join the universal moan. Conscripts who have never yet In the front of battle met, Join your sorrows to the grief Of these veterans for their chief! Veterans, raise your brows the while, As of yore by Rhine and Nile; Show the frequent ghastly scar Won in following him to war; Tell the fields where you have bled, Left a limb, or heart’s-blood shed; And remembering each brave year, March on proudly by his bier---- Forth with drooping weapons come To the rolling of the drum! Let the city’s busy hum Cease when rolls the muffled drum; Let no light laugh, no rude sound, E’er disturb the hush profound! Only let the swinging bell Of St. Roche peal out its knell. Silence! on his rolling car Comes the favored Child of war! Not as in the olden days, With his forehead bound with bays, With the bright sword in his hand, Encircled with his ancient band. Long the sceptre and the crown At the grave hath he laid down. Now with coffin and with shroud Comes the chieftain once so proud. On his pale brow, on his cheek, Death hath set his signet bleak, And the dead alone doth crave Rest and silence in the grave. Sound the trumpet, roll the drum, Bear his ashes to the tomb!