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Land of Romance! Fair and jocund France! From thy green meads, and from thy sunny rills, Thy laughing plains, and from thy vine-clad hills, Thy dark-eyed maids advance; And while the pipe its gentle music trills They wreathe the graceful dance.

Land of Romance! Fair and fertile France! When music's voice o'er hill and dell and plain Had ceased, the minstrel harp, the vocal strain, Waked from their long long trance— The Troubadour's soft lay revived again By thy bright wave, Durance!