Oh! barren hearth of Picardy

And trampled harvest field,

Say, who will light your fire at night

Or mill your autumn yield?

No more the reaper plies his trade,

The hours of peace are o'er,

And gone the matron and the maid,

And they return no more.

The poppies blow in Picardy,

The skylark sings o'erhead,

And flower and bird their vigil keep

Above the nameless dead;

But though above the dark sky lowers,

Beneath its gloom is set

The little seeds of Freedom's flowers,

To rim the parapet.

And hearts are strong in Picardy,

Where Hope is still aflame,

Where Freedom's heroes see ahead

The goal at which they aim;

Though drear and cold the ruined hearth

And barren fields are dumb,

A voice breathes soft across the earth

Of peace that is to come.