The Merry Chasseur

O, a gallant sans-peur
Is the merry Chasseur,
With his fanfaron horn, and his rifle, ping-pang!
And his grand haversack
Of gold on his back:
His pistol, cric-crac!
And his sword, cling-clang!

O, to see him blithe and gay
From some hot and bloody day,
Come to dance the night away till the bugle blows “au rang!”
With a wheel and a whirl,
And a wheeling waltzing girl,
And his bow, “place aux dames!” and his oath, “feu et sang!”
And his hop and his fling,
Till his gold and silver ring
To the clatter and the clash of his sword, cling-clang!

But hark!
Through the dark
Up goes the well-known shout!
The drums beat the turn-out!
Cut short your courting, Monsieur l'Amant!
Saddle! mount! march! trot!
Down comes the storm of shot!
The foe is at the charge! En avant!
His jolly haversack
Of gold is on his back;
Hear his pistol, cric-crac! hear his rifle, ping-pang!

Vive l'Empereur!
And where's the cliasseur?

He's in
Among the din,
Steel to steel—cling-clang!
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