She sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more-- Let us sit with thee weeping sore, O fair France! She trembleth as the days advance Who used to be so light of heart:-- We in thy trembling bear a part, Sister France! Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons? "Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones."-- Alas, France! She struggles in a d**hly trance, As in a dream her pulses stir, She hears the nations calling her, "France, France, France!" Thou people of the lifted lance, Forbear her tears, forbear her blood: Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood, Back from France. Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France. A time there is for change and chance, A time for pa**ing of the cup: And One abides can yet bind up Broken France. A time there is for change and chance: Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and s** them up After France?