With colors gay, adown the street,
The drums alert with stirring beat,
Our lads pass by who rode for France.
They proudly step with ne'er a glance
To right or left. They never knew defeat.

And still they come, the marching feet
Sweep on. Their triumph is complete
The pennons flutter and the sky's adance
With colors gay.

So late in woods, the air replete
With bursting shell and war's conceit,
But now to pulsing beat advance,
And shouts, that thrill, for home, for France,
Our lads march by, adown the street
With colors gay.