On Lotharingian soil I rooted stand.
As wind whips peaks, white, on the azure sea
Strange stones in bright green field encircle me.
The answer occurs to mind: hallow’d land.
My spirit stricken; a bugle sounding
Music, sweet balm of the soul, doth betray
For rank upon rank, brave chivalry lay
Hidden and silent, below me sleeping.
In retribution for cowardly hate
Does courageous blood a vengeful God sate?
The music fades again, a sign given,
A hopping rebuke, cheerful and feathered
Half-penny value to careless human.
Are not His children greatly more treasured?
(My competition: La Chasse)