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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!"
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.
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!