Original
Modern English
Advance our waving colours on the walls; Rescued is Orleans from the English Thus Joan la Pucelle hath perform’d her word.
Let’s raise our waving flags on the walls; Orleans is saved from the English. This is what Joan la Pucelle promised and has done.
Divinest creature, Astraea’s daughter, How shall I honour thee for this success? Thy promises are like Adonis’ gardens That one day bloom’d and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious prophetess! Recover’d is the town of Orleans: More blessed hap did ne’er befall our state.
Divine creature, daughter of Astraea, How should I honor you for this victory? Your promises are like Adonis’ gardens, Which bloom one day and are barren the next. France, rejoice in your glorious prophetess! The town of Orleans is saved: No better luck has ever come to our kingdom.
Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the open streets, To celebrate the joy that God hath given us.
Why aren’t the bells ringing loudly throughout the city? Dauphin, order the people to light bonfires, And have a feast and celebration in the streets, To celebrate the joy that God has given us.
All France will be replete with mirth and joy, When they shall hear how we have play’d the men.
All of France will be filled with happiness and joy, When they hear how we’ve been brave and fought like men.
’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her, And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her I’ll rear Than Rhodope’s or Memphis’ ever was: In memory of her when she is dead, Her ashes, in an urn more precious Than the rich-jewel’d of Darius, Transported shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France. No longer on Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint. Come in, and let us banquet royally, After this golden day of victory.
It’s Joan, not us, who has won the day; For that, I’ll share my crown with her, And all the priests and friars in my kingdom Shall sing her praises in procession forever. I’ll build her a grander monument Than any of those in Rhodope or Memphis: In memory of her, when she’s gone, Her ashes, in a more precious urn Than Darius’s jeweled one, Will be carried in grand ceremonies Before the kings and queens of France. No longer will we call on Saint Denis, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France’s saint. Come, let’s feast and celebrate in royal style, After this glorious day of victory.