The Count Rollànd rides through the battle-field

And makes, with Durendal's keen blade in hand,

A mighty carnage of the Saracens.

Ah! had you then beheld the valiant Knight

Heap corse on corse; blood drenching all the ground;

His own arms, hauberk, all besmeared with gore,

And his good steed from neck to shoulder bleed!

Still Olivier halts not in his career.

Of the twelve Peers not one deserves reproach,

And all the French strike well and massacre

The foe. The Pagans dead or dying fall.

Cries the Archbishop: "Well done, Knights of France!

Montjoie! Montjoie! It is Carle's battle cry!"


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