When prairies, Lord, breathe but cold words,
And ravaged hamlets sleep in peace,
And angelus bells hang unheard,
Upon unflowered, waning leas,
Let fall from your grey monstrous skies
That dear and tasty raven flesh.
Strange army of malicious cries,
The frigid winds attack your nests!
Along the yellowed rivers' roll
Upon the Calvary's broad bend,
Above the gullies and the holes,
Disperse and rally, foe or friend!
Upon the fields of France they feed,
Where sleep the dead of yesteryear,
And thousands swirl in wintry greed
So that each passer-by may fear!
Be now the herald of our yoke,
Our black funereal bird of harm!
O holy saints atop the oak,
Lost masts amidst the evening charm,
Leave warblers of the month of May
To those led on by woods' retreat,
Bestride the grass they aim to stay
A sad and futureless defeat.