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Through Walloon hills and Meuse-cut stone,
Where Liège's old cathedrals have grown,
The yellow buses climb and wind,
A patient route the hills designed.

From Charleroi to Bastogne's snow,
From Namur's ramparts down below,
Transport en Commun won't forget
The towns the railway hasn't met.

"Bonjour, montez," the driver smiles,
You ride and sway for thirty miles,
The forest blurs, the river bends,
You step off where the pavement ends.

Through valleys carved by ancient rain,
Past coal-dark towns and golden grain,
You hold the south with steady hand—
Wallonia rolls across the land.