The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed Edited, with notes, by Sir George Young |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXVI. | XXVI.
WATERLOO. |
| XXVII. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XXXIX. |
| XL. |
| XLI. |
| XLII. |
| XLIII. |
| XLIV. |
| XLV. |
| XLVI. |
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
113
XXVI. WATERLOO.
“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.
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 Paynims dance,
There never dawned a day so bright
As Waterloo's on France.
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 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!
Flags fluttered on the gale,
114
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!
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 mischance;
Henceforth I think he'll hardly choose
To show himself in France.
The king was sadly scarred;
Lord Eldon, as he ran away,
Was taken by the Guard;
Poor Wellington with fifty Blues
Escaped by some mischance;
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 folks laugh in France.
That night in Grosvenor Place,
115
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 folks 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 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.
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.
Who lost a leg in Spain,
116
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.
| The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |