Oh! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north, With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme today the helmet of Navarre.

Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night; Say will it not be then the same, Whether we played the black or white, Whether we lost or won the game?

The great cause of revolutions is this, that while nations move onward, constitutions stand still.