« You were glorious, days of eighteen hundred twelve,
When our fathers, great hearts that beat beneath the smock,
Forgetting immortal affronts,
Under the English flags, in proud phalanxes,
Rifle in hand, rushed to the frontiers
Singing with the bugles!

Youths with beardless cheeks, men with robust hands,
Ever ready to avenge all just causes,
As to defy all powers!

Ever ready, these valiant ones, at the first cry of alert,
To respond, weapon in arm and chest bared,
To the call of all duties!

Behold them pass, these heroes of another age,
Conscripts whose cool blood, gaiety, courage
Put the seasoned soldier to shame!
Whence come they? From the fields! Whither go they? To glory!
How are they called? They are called Victory:
Ask Salaberry!

Dost thou recognize them, France? England, salute!
These are our Voltigeurs; their resolute band
Awaits neither ranks nor favors;
They go to die without fear or conquer without boasting…
They are ever thy sons, smile with pride, O France!
Albion, count thy saviors!

The foreign cannon roared at our gates;

Of a jealous enemy the numerous cohorts
Threatened our crumbling walls.
Facing the peril ready to lose their heads,
Our conquerors of yesterday, pale in the tempest,
Gazed at each other all aghast.

It is true, one wished to defend oneself nonetheless;
But seeing the storm and the supreme danger
Arise and grow on all sides,
One felt that, before the numerical force,
Mighty England would, in America,
See crumble her last rampart.

Suddenly a cry rang out: ― Frenchmen, to the rescue! ―
Then, heeding no more than the instinct that drove them
Toward generous compromises,
Our young men, sons of the vanquished of yesteryear,
Rushed joyfully and set forth to war
Under the old enemy flags!

― But these flags are stained with the pure blood of your veins,
They were told; to dip into these vain discords,
Is forever to bow your brows;
This enemy who comes will avenge your defeats…
To the English recruiter these conscripts said: ― Do it!
Duty speaks, we shall go!

And then, weapon on shoulder! to the wind the little songs!…
One day, to repel seven thousand bayonets,
They are cried to: ― Children, high hearts! ―
They are but three hundred, packed tight as pikes;
But our three hundred, to us, better than thy epic Greeks,
O Leonidas, are conquerors!

Yes, France! These three hundred soldiers of a week,
The sun, an entire day of superhuman struggle,
Saw them, their blood lavished,
Under iron and fire, laughing at the projectiles,
One against twenty, inscribe beside Thermopylae
The rival name of Châteauguay!

Unexpected victory, it was decisive.
When peace was signed, we held the offensive:
We saw fairer days again;
And our heroes, having no more miracles to perform,
After fixing the fate of a hemisphere,
Returned to their sabots

Now, on our walls, when an ironic gesture
Shows us, we French, the British standard
That Wolfe’s blood sealed there,
We can ― and that suffices to confound you ―
Indicate this date, O scoffers! and reply:
― Without us it would be there no more!

Honor to you, conscripts, who in this proud poem,
Wished anew, under the very banner
Of our haughty conquerors,
To rejuvenate on our shores the legend of glory
That says that, when God strikes hard in history,
It is ever by the hand of the Franks! »

– Louis Fréchette, Châteauguay (1908).

[E.H. Holmfield, The Battle of Châteauguay (1896)]