Wrapped in smoke stood the towers of Rethel,

The battle surged fierce by the town;

On terror and struggle and turmoil

The sweet skies of Champagne looked down.

Far away smiled the beautiful uplands,

The blue Vosges lay solemn beyond;

Well France knew such discord of color

In the terrible days of the Fronde.

At the breach in the ramparts of Rethel

Each stone was bought dearly by blood,

For De Raslin was leading the stormers,

And Turenne on the battlements stood.

Again and again closed the conflict,

The madness of strife upon all;

Right well fought the ranks of the marshal,

Yet twice they fell back from the wall.

Twice, thrice repulsed, baffled, and beaten,

They glared, where in gallant array,

Brave in gilding and 'broidery and feather,

The guards in reserve watched the fray.

"Go in, ye kid-gloved dandies!" they shouted

As sullenly rearward they bore;

The gaps deep and wide in their columns,

The lilies all dripping in gore.

"Come on, ye kid-gloved dandies!" and laughing

At the challenge, the Household Brigade

Dressed ranks, floated standards, blew trumpets,

And flashed out each glittering blade.

And carelessly as to a banquet,

And joyously as to a dance,

Where the Frondeurs in triumph were gathered,

Went the best blood of Scotland and France.

The gay plumes were shorn as in tempest;

The gay scarfs stained crimson and black;

Storm of bullet and broadsword closed o'er them,

Yet never one proud foot turned back.

Though half of their number lay silent

On the breach their last effort had won,

King Louis was master of Rethel

Ere the day and its story was done.

And the fierce taunting cry grew a proverb

Ere revolt and its horrors were past;

For men knew, ere o'er France's fair valleys

Peace waved her banner at last,

That the softest of tones in the boudoir,

The lightest of steps in the "ronde,"

Was theirs whose keen swords bit the deepest

In the terrible days of the Fronde.