Beranger’s my Last Song Perhaps (January 1814)
When, to despoil my native France,
With flaming torch and cruel sword
And boisterous drums her foeman comes,
I curse him and his vandal horde!
Yet, what avail accrues to her,
If we assume the garb of woe?
Let’s merry be,—in laughter we
May rescue somewhat from the foe!
Ah, many a brave man trembles now.
I (coward!) show no sign of fear;
When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends,
I drown my panic in his cheer.
Come, gather round my humble board,
And let the sparkling wassail flow,—
Chuckling to think, the while you drink,
“This much we rescue from the foe!”
My creditors beset me so
And so environed my abode,
That I agreed, despite my need,
To settle up the debts I owed;
When suddenly there came the news
Of this invasion, as you know;
I’ll pay no score; pray, lend me more,—
I—I will keep it from the foe!
Now here’s my mistress,—pretty dear!—
Feigns terror at this martial noise,
And yet, methinks, the artful minx
Would like to meet those soldier boys!
I tell her that they’re coarse and rude,
Yet feel she don’t believe 'em so,—
Well, never mind; so she be kind,
That much I rescue from the foe!
If, brothers, hope shall have in store
For us and ours no friendly glance,
Let’s rather die than raise a cry
Of welcome to the foes of France!
But, like the swan that dying sings,
Let us, O Frenchmen, singing go,—
Then shall our cheer, when death is near,
Be so much rescued from the foe!
