Of streams that men take honour in
The Frenchman looks to three,
And each one has for origin
The hills of Burgundy;
And each has known the quivers
Of blood and tears and pain—
O gallant bleeding rivers,
The Marne, the Meuse, the Aisne.
Says Marne: “My poplar fringes
Have felt the Prussian tread,
The blood of brave men tinges
My banks with lasting red;
Let others ask due credit,
But France has me to thank;
Von Kluck himself has said it:—
I turned the Boche’s flank!”
Says Meuse: “I claim no winning,
No glory on the stage,
Save that, in the beginning
I stove to save Liége.
Alas that Frankish rivers
Should share such shame as mine—
In spite of all endeavours
I flow to join the Rhine!”
Says Aisne: “My silver shallows
Are salter than the sea,
The woe of Rheims still hallows
My endless tragedy.
Of rivers rich in story
That run through green Champagne,
In agony and glory
The chief am I, the Aisne!”
Now there are greater waters
That Frenchmen all hold dear—
The Rhone, with many daughters,
That runs so icy clear;
There’s Moselle, deep and winy,
There’s Loire, Garonne and Seine,
But O the valiant tiny—
The Marne, the Meuse, the Aisne!
