Through the defiles of Spain hath passed Rollánd

Mounted on Veillantif, his charger swift

And strong, bearing his bright and glitt'ring arms.

On goes the brave Rollánd, his lance borne up

Skyward, beneath its point a pennon bound,

Snow-white, whose fringes flap his hand.

Fair is his form, his visage bright with smiles.

Behind him follows Olivier his friend;

The French with joy, him as their champion, hail.

He on the Heathens throws a haughty glance,

But casts a sweet and humble look upon

His French, and to them speaks with courteous tone:

"Seigneurs Barons, march steadily and close.

These Pagans hither came to find a grave;

We here shall conquer such great spoil to-day

As never yet was gained by Kings of France."

Even as he spoke the word, the armies met.

Aoi.