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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Waterloo.
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
203
Waterloo.
A Ballad for the Soldier.
Thermopylae and Cannæ
Were glorious fields of yore,
Leonidas and Hannibal
Right famous evermore;
But we can claim a nobler name
A field more glorious too,
The chief who thus achieved for us
Victorious Waterloo.
Were glorious fields of yore,
Leonidas and Hannibal
Right famous evermore;
But we can claim a nobler name
A field more glorious too,
The chief who thus achieved for us
Victorious Waterloo.
Let others boast of Cæsar's host
Led on by Cæsar's skill,
And how fierce Attila could rout,
And Alaric could kill,—
But we—right well, O hear me tell
What British troops can do,
When marshall'd by a Wellington
To win a Waterloo!
Led on by Cæsar's skill,
And how fierce Attila could rout,
And Alaric could kill,—
But we—right well, O hear me tell
What British troops can do,
When marshall'd by a Wellington
To win a Waterloo!
O for a Pindar's harp to tune
The triumphs of that day!
O for a Homer's pictured words
To paint the fearful fray!—
Alas, my tongue and harp illstrung
In feeble tones and few,
Hath little skill—yet right good-will
To sing of Waterloo.
The triumphs of that day!
O for a Homer's pictured words
To paint the fearful fray!—
Alas, my tongue and harp illstrung
In feeble tones and few,
Hath little skill—yet right good-will
To sing of Waterloo.
Then gather round, my comrades,
And hear a soldier tell
How full of honour was the day
When—every man did well!
And though a soldier's speech be rough,
His heart is hot and true
While thus he tells of Wellington
At hard-fought Waterloo.
And hear a soldier tell
How full of honour was the day
When—every man did well!
205
His heart is hot and true
While thus he tells of Wellington
At hard-fought Waterloo.
Sublimely calm, our iron Duke,
A lion in his lair,
Waited and watch'd with sleepless eye
To see what France would dare,
Nor deign'd to stir from Brussels
Until he surely knew
The foe was rushing on his fate
At chosen Waterloo.
A lion in his lair,
Waited and watch'd with sleepless eye
To see what France would dare,
Nor deign'd to stir from Brussels
Until he surely knew
The foe was rushing on his fate
At chosen Waterloo.
What? should the hunter waste his strength
Nor hold his good hounds back
Before he knows they near the foes
And open on the track?
No: let “surprise” blight Frenchmen's eyes,
For truly they shall rue
The giant skill that, stern and still,
Drew them to Waterloo!
Nor hold his good hounds back
Before he knows they near the foes
And open on the track?
No: let “surprise” blight Frenchmen's eyes,
For truly they shall rue
The giant skill that, stern and still,
Drew them to Waterloo!
Hotly the couriers gallop up
To Richmond's festive scene,—
Alone, alone the chieftain stood
Undaunted and serene;
Ready, ready,—staunch and steady,—
And forth the orders flew
That march'd us off to Quatre Bras,
And whelming Waterloo.
To Richmond's festive scene,—
Alone, alone the chieftain stood
Undaunted and serene;
Ready, ready,—staunch and steady,—
And forth the orders flew
That march'd us off to Quatre Bras,
And whelming Waterloo.
206
Begin, begin with Quatre Bras,
That twinborn field of flame,
Where many a gallant deed was done
By many a gallant name;
That battle-field, which seem'd to yield
An earnest and review
Of all that British courage dared
And did at Waterloo.
That twinborn field of flame,
Where many a gallant deed was done
By many a gallant name;
That battle-field, which seem'd to yield
An earnest and review
Of all that British courage dared
And did at Waterloo.
We heard from far old Blucher's guns,
At Ligny's blazing street,
And hurried on to Weimar's aid,
Right glad the foe to meet;
A score of miles to Quatre Bras;
But still to arms we stood
And cheerly rush'd without a pause
To win the Boissy wood:
At Ligny's blazing street,
And hurried on to Weimar's aid,
Right glad the foe to meet;
A score of miles to Quatre Bras;
But still to arms we stood
And cheerly rush'd without a pause
To win the Boissy wood:
Then, just like cowards, three to one,
Before we could deploy,
To crush us, Ney and Excelmans
Flew down with fiendish joy;
But stout we stood in hollow squares,
And fought, and kept the ground,
While lancer spears and cuirassiers
Were charging us all round!
Before we could deploy,
To crush us, Ney and Excelmans
Flew down with fiendish joy;
But stout we stood in hollow squares,
And fought, and kept the ground,
While lancer spears and cuirassiers
Were charging us all round!
Aye, aye, my men, we battled then
Like wolves and bears at bay,
And thousands there among the dead
With sable Brunswick lay:
And back to back in that attack
The ninety-second fought,—
And “steadily” the twenty-eighth
Behaved as Britons ought.
Like wolves and bears at bay,
And thousands there among the dead
With sable Brunswick lay:
207
The ninety-second fought,—
And “steadily” the twenty-eighth
Behaved as Britons ought.
Then up came Maitland with the guards,
Hurrah! they clear the wood;
But still the furious Frenchman charged,
And still we stoutly stood,
Till gentle night drew on, and that
Drew off the treacherous Ney,
For when the morning dimly broke
—The fox had stole away!
Hurrah! they clear the wood;
But still the furious Frenchman charged,
And still we stoutly stood,
Till gentle night drew on, and that
Drew off the treacherous Ney,
For when the morning dimly broke
—The fox had stole away!
Thus much, my lads, for Quatre Bras;
And now for Waterloo,
Where skill and courage did it all,
With God's good help in view!
For we were beardless raw recruits,
And they, more numerous far,
Were fierce mustachioed mighty men,
The veterans of war.
And now for Waterloo,
Where skill and courage did it all,
With God's good help in view!
For we were beardless raw recruits,
And they, more numerous far,
Were fierce mustachioed mighty men,
The veterans of war.
The God of battles help'd us soon,
As godless France drew nigh,
—It was the great eighteenth of June,
The sun was getting high;—
And suddenly two hundred guns
At once with thundering throats
Peal'd out their dreadful overture
In deep volcano notes!
As godless France drew nigh,
—It was the great eighteenth of June,
The sun was getting high;—
And suddenly two hundred guns
At once with thundering throats
Peal'd out their dreadful overture
In deep volcano notes!
208
Then, by ten thousands, horse and foot,
Came on the foaming Gaul,
And still with bristling front we stood
As solid as a wall:
And stout Macdonnell's Hougoumont,
The centre of the van,
Was storm'd and storm'd and storm'd—in vain,
—He held it like a man!
Came on the foaming Gaul,
And still with bristling front we stood
As solid as a wall:
And stout Macdonnell's Hougoumont,
The centre of the van,
Was storm'd and storm'd and storm'd—in vain,
—He held it like a man!
O who can count the myriad deeds
That hundreds did in fight?
Ponsonby falls, and Picton bleeds,
And—both are quench'd in night:
And many a hero subaltern
And hero private too
Beat Ajax and Achilles both
In winning Waterloo!
That hundreds did in fight?
Ponsonby falls, and Picton bleeds,
And—both are quench'd in night:
And many a hero subaltern
And hero private too
Beat Ajax and Achilles both
In winning Waterloo!
What shall I say on that dread day
Of Ferrier and his band?
Ten times he chased the foes away,
And charged them sword in hand;
Six of those ten he led his men
With blood upon his brow,—
And weakly in the eleventh died
To live in glory now!
Of Ferrier and his band?
Ten times he chased the foes away,
And charged them sword in hand;
Six of those ten he led his men
With blood upon his brow,—
And weakly in the eleventh died
To live in glory now!
Or, give a stave to Shaw the brave,
—In death the hero sleeps,—
Hemm'd by a score, he knock'd them o'er,
And hew'd them down in heaps;
Till, wearied out, the lion stout
Beset as by a pack
Of hungry hounds, fell full of wounds,
But none upon his back!
—In death the hero sleeps,—
Hemm'd by a score, he knock'd them o'er,
And hew'd them down in heaps;
209
Beset as by a pack
Of hungry hounds, fell full of wounds,
But none upon his back!
And Halkett then before his men
Dash'd forward and made prize
(While both the lines for wonderment
Could scarce believe their eyes)
Of a gaily-plumed French general
Haranguing his array,
—But Halkett caught him, speech and all,
And bore him right away!
Dash'd forward and made prize
(While both the lines for wonderment
Could scarce believe their eyes)
Of a gaily-plumed French general
Haranguing his array,
—But Halkett caught him, speech and all,
And bore him right away!
Thee too, De Lancey, generous chief,
For thee a niche be found,—
Wounded to death, he scorn'd relief
Whilst others bled around:
And D'Oyley and Fitzgerald died,
Just as the day was won,—
And Gordon by his general's side—
The side of Wellington!
For thee a niche be found,—
Wounded to death, he scorn'd relief
Whilst others bled around:
And D'Oyley and Fitzgerald died,
Just as the day was won,—
And Gordon by his general's side—
The side of Wellington!
And Somerset and Uxbridge then
Gave each a limb to death;
Curzon and Canning cheer'd their men
With their last dying breath;
And gallant Miller stricken sore
With fainting utterance cries,
“Bring me my colours! wave them o'er
Your colonel till he dies!”
Gave each a limb to death;
Curzon and Canning cheer'd their men
With their last dying breath;
And gallant Miller stricken sore
With fainting utterance cries,
“Bring me my colours! wave them o'er
Your colonel till he dies!”
210
Then furious wax'd the Emperor
That Britons wouldn't run,
“Les bêtes, pourquoi ne fuient-ils pas?
Et donc, ce Vellington?”
But Vellington still holds his own
For eight red hours and more,
“Why comes not Marshal Blucher down?
—Ha!—there's his cannons' roar,—
That Britons wouldn't run,
“Les bêtes, pourquoi ne fuient-ils pas?
Et donc, ce Vellington?”
But Vellington still holds his own
For eight red hours and more,
“Why comes not Marshal Blucher down?
—Ha!—there's his cannons' roar,—
“Up, guards, and at them! charge!”—the word
Like forkèd lightning passes,
And lance, and bayonet, and sword
Rush on in glittering masses!
Back, back, the surging columns roll
In terrified dismay,
And onward shout against the rout
The conquerors of the day!
Like forkèd lightning passes,
And lance, and bayonet, and sword
Rush on in glittering masses!
Back, back, the surging columns roll
In terrified dismay,
And onward shout against the rout
The conquerors of the day!
O now, the tide of battle,
Is turn'd to seas of blood,
When case and grape-shot rattle
Among the multitude,
And Fates, led on by Furies,
Destroy the flying host,
And Chaos mated with Despair
Makes all the lost most lost!
Is turn'd to seas of blood,
When case and grape-shot rattle
Among the multitude,
And Fates, led on by Furies,
Destroy the flying host,
And Chaos mated with Despair
Makes all the lost most lost!
Woe, woe! thou caitiff-hero,
Thou Emperor—and slave,
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed
With those devoted brave?
No, no,—the coward's thought was self,
And “Suave qui peut” his cry,
And verily at Waterloo
Did Great Napoleon die!
Thou Emperor—and slave,
Why didst not thou, too, nobly bleed
With those devoted brave?
211
And “Suave qui peut” his cry,
And verily at Waterloo
Did Great Napoleon die!
He died to fame, while yet his name
Was on ten thousand tongues
That trusted him, and pray'd to him
And—cursed him for their wrongs!
O noble souls! Imperial Guard,
Had your chief been but true,
Ye would have stood and stopp'd the rout
At crushing Waterloo!
Was on ten thousand tongues
That trusted him, and pray'd to him
And—cursed him for their wrongs!
O noble souls! Imperial Guard,
Had your chief been but true,
Ye would have stood and stopp'd the rout
At crushing Waterloo!
Still as they fled from Wellington
To Blucher's arms they flew;
These two made up the Quatre Bras
To clutch a Waterloo!
Ha! Blucher's Prussian vengeance
Was fully sated then,
When hated France upon the field
Left forty thousand men.
To Blucher's arms they flew;
These two made up the Quatre Bras
To clutch a Waterloo!
Ha! Blucher's Prussian vengeance
Was fully sated then,
When hated France upon the field
Left forty thousand men.
Thus, comrades, hath a soldier told
What Wellington's calm skill,
When help'd by troops of British mould
And God's almighty will,
Against a veteran triple force
On battle-field can do:—
Then, three times three for Wellington,
The Prince of Waterloo!
What Wellington's calm skill,
When help'd by troops of British mould
And God's almighty will,
Against a veteran triple force
On battle-field can do:—
Then, three times three for Wellington,
The Prince of Waterloo!
| Ballads for the Times | |