Hail to you, Poilu! Before the world you stand

Clad in the glory of your deathless fame;

War had no terrors for the dauntless band

That held the line 'gainst bombs, and shells, and flame.

Through tragic months of winter cold and rain,

When snow and water filled the narrow trench,

Steadfast and patient you did bear the strain;

Oh! little soldier of the war-tried French.

From peasant hut, from wealthy, well-stocked farm,

From mountain village, or town's crowded mart,

When first the Toscin shrilled its fierce alarm,

Gladly you rushed to play your noble part.

Oh, Sons of France! How quickly you forgot

The easy comfort of your tranquil life;

When high and low have shared a common lot

There is no room for friction or for strife.

Beneath the August sun, two years ago,

Life fiercely throbbed and beat in your young frame;

You battled, struggled, panted in the glow

Of love for France, and for her precious fame.

'Midst rye and wheat of cultivated fields,

Where now the harvest waits the reapers' glaive,

Only a wooden cross and rain-stained kepi shields

You—unknown hero in your nameless grave.

Afar, 'perhaps, some woman mourns your end,

Wondering, in sorrow, where your body lies;

She cannot come with loving hands to tend

Your humble tomb beneath the Argonne skies.

No flowers shall fade upon your lowly mound,

So soon by storm and time effaced to be;

But where you died, His France's holy ground,

An altar and a pledge to Victory.

Hail to you, Poilu! In all the years to come,

You'll represent the Fighting Soul of France;

Verdun, the Meuse, the Champagne and the Somme,

Are clarion notes which thrill, inspire, entrance.

That rolling down the misty vales of Time

Proclaim your strength, your courage, fine and true,

Raising you to the ranks of men sublime;

The World salutes you! Hail to you, Poilu!

Dinard, 1918.