She Sitteth Still Who Used To Dance, She Weepeth Sore And More And More - Let Us Sit With Thee Weeping Sore, O Fair France! She Trembleth As The Days Advance Who Used To Be So Light Of Heart: - We In Thy Trembling Bear A Part, Sister France! Her Eyes Shine Tearful As They Glance: "Who Shall Give Back My Slaughtered Sons? "Bind Up," She Saith, "My Wounded Ones." - Alas, France! She Struggles In A Deathly Trance, As In A Dream Her Pulses Stir, She Hears The Nations Calling Her, "France, France, France!" Thou People Of The Lifted Lance, Forbear Her Tears, Forbear Her Blood: Roll Back, Roll Back, Thy Whelming Flood, Back From France. Eye Not Her Loveliness Askance, Forge Not For Her A Galling Chain; Leave Her At Peace To Bloom Again, Vine-Clad France. A Time There Is For Change And Chance, A Time For Passing Of The Cup: And One Abides Can Yet Bind Up Broken France. A Time There Is For Change And Chance: Who Next Shall Drink The Trembling Cup, Wring Out Its Dregs And Suck Them Up After France?