Ma derniere chanson, peut-être.

For the glory of the name of France
Never did I fail in reverence meet:
Whilst the invading foreigners advance,
Their successes with a curse I greet
Still, though sorrow honorable be,
What's the object of parading woe?
If to-day we're still for laughter free,
That is so much taken from the foe!

Many a brave man trembles now with fear —
I alone, a coward, tremble not;
Bacchus gathers us to tipple here —
Gay the feast, and fortunate our lot
Bacchus is the god to whom I pray;
Friends, through him my feelings bolder grow:
Drink, let's drink, then; drink we and be gay;
This is so much taken from the foe!

How these creditors, who never spare,
Corsair-like, have all upon me turned!
My accounts I was about to square,
When the news — you know it all — I learned
Tribe, to greedy avarice the prey,
Yours the gold for which I felt a throe:
Lend me still, — ay, something lend to-day;
'Twould be so much taken from the foe!

I can boast a mistress young and fair;
They on her much danger will entail:
Yet the traitress, I could almost swear,
Will at heart the coming strangers hail
Certain outrages, that we regret,
She's but half afraid to undergo:
Still this night, at least, is left me yet;
'Twill be so much taken from the foe!

Friends, if Hope hath now no sunny glance,
Swear we all, though death should be incurred,
That to greet the enemies of France
Voice of ours shall never more be heard
But I would not that ye should forget
How the swan, in singing, laid him low:
Frenchmen to the last, sing, sing we yet;
Here is so much taken from the foe!