And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee,
And must we, henceforth, wholly sever?
Shall thy laborious jeux-d'esprit
Sadden our lives no more for ever?
And all thy future wilt thou link
With that brave land to which thou goest?
Unhappy France! we used to think
She touched, at Sedan, fortune's lowest.
And you're made French as easily
As you might change the clothes you're wearing?
Fancy!— and‘ tis so hard to be
A man of sense and modest bearing.
May fortitude beneath this blow
Fail not the gallant Gallic nation!
By past experience, well we know
Her genius for recuperation.
And as for us — to our disgrace,
Your stricture's truth must be conceded:
Would any but a stupid race
Have made the fuss about you we did?