Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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The Battle of Roleia.
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
196
The Battle of Roleia.
A Military Ballad.
Ye children of the veterans
Who fought for faithless Spain,
And for ungrateful Portugal
Pour'd out their blood like rain,—
Come near me, and hear me,
For I would tell you well
How gallantly your fathers fought,
Or gloriously they fell!
Who fought for faithless Spain,
And for ungrateful Portugal
Pour'd out their blood like rain,—
Come near me, and hear me,
For I would tell you well
How gallantly your fathers fought,
Or gloriously they fell!
I sing Roleia's bloody strife,
The first of many frays,
When iron Wellesley led us on
Invincible always;
Roleia gay and evergreen,
Festoon'd with vines and flowers,
Roleia, scorch'd and blood-bedew'd,—
And half that blood was ours!
The first of many frays,
When iron Wellesley led us on
Invincible always;
Roleia gay and evergreen,
Festoon'd with vines and flowers,
Roleia, scorch'd and blood-bedew'd,—
And half that blood was ours!
The seventeenth of August
It shone out bright and clear,
And still we press'd the Frenchman's flank,
And hung upon his rear;
From Brilos and Obidos
Had we driven the bold Laborde,
And now among the mountain rocks
We sought him with the sword!
It shone out bright and clear,
And still we press'd the Frenchman's flank,
And hung upon his rear;
From Brilos and Obidos
Had we driven the bold Laborde,
And now among the mountain rocks
We sought him with the sword!
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All golden is the plain with wheat,
All purple are the hills
With luscious vineyards ripe and sweet,
And laced with crystal rills;
Yet must the rills run down with gore,
The corn be trampled red,
Before Roleia's threshing-floor
Is glutted with her dead!
All purple are the hills
With luscious vineyards ripe and sweet,
And laced with crystal rills;
Yet must the rills run down with gore,
The corn be trampled red,
Before Roleia's threshing-floor
Is glutted with her dead!
O cheerily the bugles spoke,
And all our hearts beat high
When over Monte Junto broke
The sun upon the sky;
Right early from Obidos
We gladly sallied then
A goodly host, in columns three,
Of fourteen thousand men.
And all our hearts beat high
When over Monte Junto broke
The sun upon the sky;
Right early from Obidos
We gladly sallied then
A goodly host, in columns three,
Of fourteen thousand men.
Brave Ferguson led on the left,
And Trant the flanking right,
With iron Arthur in the midst,
The focus of the fight;
And fast by Wellesley's gallant side
The Craufurd rode amain,
And Hill, the British soldier's pride,
And Nightingale, and Fane.
And Trant the flanking right,
With iron Arthur in the midst,
The focus of the fight;
And fast by Wellesley's gallant side
The Craufurd rode amain,
And Hill, the British soldier's pride,
And Nightingale, and Fane.
Crouching like a tiger,
In his high and rocky lair,
The Frenchman howl'd and show'd his teeth
And—wish'd he wasn't there;
For Craufurd, Hill, and Nightingale
Flew at him as he lay,
And up our gallant fellows sprang
As bloodhounds on the prey.
In his high and rocky lair,
The Frenchman howl'd and show'd his teeth
And—wish'd he wasn't there;
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Flew at him as he lay,
And up our gallant fellows sprang
As bloodhounds on the prey.
And look! we hunt the bold Laborde
To Zambugeira's height,—
While Trant with Fane and Ferguson
Outflank him left and right;
And then with cheers we charge the front,
With cheers the foe reply,—
No child's play was that battle brunt,
We swore to win or die!
To Zambugeira's height,—
While Trant with Fane and Ferguson
Outflank him left and right;
And then with cheers we charge the front,
With cheers the foe reply,—
No child's play was that battle brunt,
We swore to win or die!
Rattled loud the muskets' roar,—
We struggled man to man,—
The rugged rocks were wash'd in gore,
With gore the gullies ran!
Fiercely through those mountain paths
Our bloody way we force,—
And find in strength upon the heights
The Frenchman, foot and horse:
We struggled man to man,—
The rugged rocks were wash'd in gore,
With gore the gullies ran!
Fiercely through those mountain paths
Our bloody way we force,—
And find in strength upon the heights
The Frenchman, foot and horse:
Ah, then, my Ninth, and Twenty-ninth,
Your courage was too hot,
For down on your disorder'd ranks
Secure they pour the shot;
But all their horse and foot and guns
Could never make you fly,—
The losing Frenchman fights and runs,
But Britons fight—and die!
Your courage was too hot,
For down on your disorder'd ranks
Secure they pour the shot;
But all their horse and foot and guns
Could never make you fly,—
The losing Frenchman fights and runs,
But Britons fight—and die!
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Up to the rescue, Ferguson!
And keep the hard-fought hill;
Their chiefs are pick'd off, one by one,
And lo, they rally still;
They rally, and rush stoutly on,—
The bold Laborde gives way,—
The day is lost! the day is won!
And ours is the day!
And keep the hard-fought hill;
Their chiefs are pick'd off, one by one,
And lo, they rally still;
They rally, and rush stoutly on,—
The bold Laborde gives way,—
The day is lost! the day is won!
And ours is the day!
Then well retreating sage and slow
Alternately in mass
With charging horse, the wily foe
Gains Runa's rocky pass;
And left us thus Roleia's field,
With other fields in store,
Vimiera, Torres Vedras,
And half a hundred more!
Alternately in mass
With charging horse, the wily foe
Gains Runa's rocky pass;
And left us thus Roleia's field,
With other fields in store,
Vimiera, Torres Vedras,
And half a hundred more!
| Ballads for the Times | |