They fell on our territory,
Like a flock of crows
On the battleground after the attack,
For a fistful of French paper
And a signature on a document
They had the right to own our land.
Old mills in peaceful valleys
Are now their possessions.
Castles and manors will soon be theirs,
They will scour our countryside,
To tempt, with money, the poor man,
Who will sell the clock and bed of his father,
To the conquerors!
They will mount the walls of our Sanctuaries,
And enthrone in their living rooms
Old statues of Breton Saints carved in wood,
Houses of the conquerors!
Foreigners yesterday in our Country,
Tomorrow they will be our masters.
And in the valley their web constantly expands,
But are we a meek race, then?
And a laissez-faire people!
If we let our Country’s treasure go to the ban
You, Bretons dispersed in the World,
I’m asking you,
You, Compatriots asleep in your Country,
I’m rousing you.
You, on whom Fate has smiled,
I’m entreating you,
Have pity on our Country, hurry to combat
A poor Patriot:
Translated by Lenora Timm