His eyes are grey steel, a frozen blue, Crown of golden light, and shining true. Stays thirty-five, an ageless face, When France needs her shield, the Sword brings God's grace Marquis de Brumenoir, veilleur des champs Guardian on high, upon Mt Blanc Beloved, blest, by Heaven’s will None deny he graces us still He bleeds in war, yet perishes not, His soldiers shout the triumph he's wrought. He feeds the poor, offers warmth in the cold No man can break a walking stronghold The Sword of Charlemagne, forever raised, Shrouded in mist, his name is praised. Condemned by foes as fallen and damned, Hailed by many as Michael's Hand. The Sword that endures, through peace and war, The Marquis fights, our timeless protector The people sing, their voices ring clear The Sword remains, always near The Sword of Charlemagne, forever raised, Shrouded in mist, his name is praised. Condemned by foes as fallen and damned, Hailed by many as Michael's Hand. Marquis de Brumenoir, veilleur des champs Guardian on high, upon Mt Blanc Beloved, blest, by Heaven’s will None deny he graces us still
