A long the thousand roads of France, br Now there, and here, swift as a glance, br A cloud, a mist blown down the sky, br Good Joan of Arc goes riding by. br br In Domremy at candlelight, br The orchards blowing rose and white br About the shadowy houses lie; br And Joan of Arc goes riding by. br br On Avignon there falls a hush, br Brief as the singing of a thrush br Across old gardens April-high; br And Joan of Arc goes riding by.