And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee,
      And must we, henceforth, wholly sever?
Shall thy laborious jeux-d'ésprit
      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?