WATERLOO.
Reading edition
“On this spot the French cavalry charged, and broke the English squares!”—Narrative of a French Tourist.
“Is it true, think you?”—Winter’s Tale.
Aye, here such valorous deeds were done As ne’er were done before; Aye, here the reddest wreath was won That ever Gallia wore; Since Ariosto’s wondrous knight Made all the Paynims dance, There never dawned a day so bright As Waterloo’s on 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 their light of fear, The steeds began to prance, The English quaked from front to rear,— They never quake in 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! 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 show himself in France. So Buonaparte pitched his tent That night 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 Aldermen were hung, Which made folk laugh in France. They pulled the Tower of London down, They burnt our wooden walls, They brought the Pope himself to town, And lodged him in St. Paul’s; And Gog and Magog rubbed their eyes, Awaking from a trance, And grumbled out in great surprise, “Oh, mercy! we’re 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. My uncle, Captain Flanigan, Who lost a leg in Spain, Tells stories of a little man, Who died at St. Helène. 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.