Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Waterloo
Waterloo.
It was here that the French cavalry charged, and cut to pieces the English squares.—Narrative of a French Tourist.
Is it true, think you?—Winter's Tale.
i.
Ay, here such valorous deeds were done
As ne'er were done before!
Ay, here the reddest wreath was won
That ever Gallia wore:
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight
Made all the Pagans dance,
There never dawned a day so bright
As Waterloo's on France.
Ay, here such valorous deeds were done
As ne'er were done before!
Ay, here the reddest wreath was won
That ever Gallia wore:
Since Ariosto's wondrous knight
Made all the Pagans dance,
There never dawned a day so bright
As Waterloo's on France.
ii.
The trumpet poured its deafening sound—
Flags fluttered on the gale;
And cannon roared, and heads flew round
As fast as summer hail:
The sabres flashed; with rage and fear
The steeds began to prance;
The English quaked from front to rear,—
They never quake in France!
The trumpet poured its deafening sound—
Flags fluttered on the gale;
And cannon roared, and heads flew round
As fast as summer hail:
The sabres flashed; with rage and fear
The steeds began to prance;
The English quaked from front to rear,—
They never quake in France!
iii.
The cuirassiers rode in and out,
As fierce as wolves and bears;
'Twas grand to see them slash about
Among the English squares!
And then the Polish lancer came,
Careering with his lance;—
No wonder Britain blushed for shame,
And ran away from France.
The cuirassiers rode in and out,
As fierce as wolves and bears;
'Twas grand to see them slash about
Among the English squares!
And then the Polish lancer came,
Careering with his lance;—
No wonder Britain blushed for shame,
And ran away from France.
iv.
The Duke of York was killed that day—
The King was sadly scarred;—
Lord Eldon, as he ran away,
Was taken by the Guard.
Poor Wellington, with fifty Blues,
Escaped by some strange chance;
Henceforth, I think he'll hardly choose
To shew himself in France.
The Duke of York was killed that day—
The King was sadly scarred;—
Lord Eldon, as he ran away,
Was taken by the Guard.
Poor Wellington, with fifty Blues,
Escaped by some strange chance;
Henceforth, I think he'll hardly choose
To shew himself in France.
v.
So Buonaparte pitched his tent
That day in Grosvenor Place;
And Ney rode straight to Parliament,
And broke the Speaker's mace.
"Vive L'Empereur," was said and sung,
From Peebles to Penzance;
The Mayor and Aidermen were hung,
Which made folks laugh in France.
So Buonaparte pitched his tent
That day in Grosvenor Place;
And Ney rode straight to Parliament,
And broke the Speaker's mace.
"Vive L'Empereur," was said and sung,
From Peebles to Penzance;
The Mayor and Aidermen were hung,
Which made folks laugh in France.
vi.
They pulled the Tower of London down;
They burned our wooden walls;
They brought his Holiness to town,
And lodged him in St. Paul's.
And God and Magog rubbed their eyes,
Awaking from a trance;
And grumbled out, in great surprise,
"O mercy! we're in France!"
They pulled the Tower of London down;
They burned our wooden walls;
They brought his Holiness to town,
And lodged him in St. Paul's.
And God and Magog rubbed their eyes,
Awaking from a trance;
And grumbled out, in great surprise,
"O mercy! we're in France!"
vii.
They sent a Regent to our Isle,—
The little King of Rome;
And squibs and crackers all the while
Blazed in the Place Vendôme.
And ever since, in arts and power
They're making great advance;
They've had strong beer from that glad hour,
And sea-coal fires in France.
They sent a Regent to our Isle,—
The little King of Rome;
And squibs and crackers all the while
Blazed in the Place Vendôme.
And ever since, in arts and power
They're making great advance;
They've had strong beer from that glad hour,
And sea-coal fires in France.
viii.
My uncle, Captain Flanigan,
Who lost a leg in Spain,
Tells stories of a little man,
Who died in St. Hélène.
But bless my heart! they can't be true,
I'm sure they're all romance;
John Bull was beat at Waterloo—
They'll swear to that in France!
My uncle, Captain Flanigan,
Who lost a leg in Spain,
Tells stories of a little man,
Who died in St. Hélène.
But bless my heart! they can't be true,
I'm sure they're all romance;
John Bull was beat at Waterloo—
They'll swear to that in France!