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THE SCORE IS—FOUR.
September, 1854.
Czar, how goes the game we play?
Czar, how speeds the gory game?
War's red hand has dealt to-day;
Who has triumph?—who has shame?
Turkey played; has Turkey won?
Hark! she tells you score for score;
You, O mighty Czar, but one;
She, full soon to reckon four.
Czar, how speeds the gory game?
War's red hand has dealt to-day;
Who has triumph?—who has shame?
Turkey played; has Turkey won?
Hark! she tells you score for score;
You, O mighty Czar, but one;
She, full soon to reckon four.
Yes, she dares her fate to try
In the iron game of swords;
Does she quail, or does she fly,
Scared by all your boasted hordes?
One, Sinope gave to you;
She from Oltenitza bore
One; Citate made her two;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
In the iron game of swords;
Does she quail, or does she fly,
Scared by all your boasted hordes?
399
She from Oltenitza bore
One; Citate made her two;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
Fiercer grows the game of blood;
Wary Omar plays it well;
How his strength your might withstood,
Abu Tabia's mounds can tell;
Grimly Turkey laughed to see
One there added to her score;
There Silistria made her three;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
Wary Omar plays it well;
How his strength your might withstood,
Abu Tabia's mounds can tell;
Grimly Turkey laughed to see
One there added to her score;
There Silistria made her three;
Soon, O Czar, she'll reckon four.
Now our conquering turn begins;
Now we dare the mighty chance;
England wars, and England wins,
Side by side with conquering France.
Once from France the game you won;
Hers are Moscow's days no more;
She nor we shall count you one;
Soon, O Czar, we'll reckon four.
Now we dare the mighty chance;
England wars, and England wins,
Side by side with conquering France.
Once from France the game you won;
Hers are Moscow's days no more;
She nor we shall count you one;
Soon, O Czar, we'll reckon four.
Tell the mighty reckoning o'er;
Reckon we and reckon you;
From Odessa one we bore;
Bomarsund we counted two;
On the gory Alma, fame
Adds another to our score;
Look, O despot, to your game;
Soon, O Czar, we reckon four.
Reckon we and reckon you;
From Odessa one we bore;
Bomarsund we counted two;
On the gory Alma, fame
Adds another to our score;
Look, O despot, to your game;
Soon, O Czar, we reckon four.
Did you boast and did you threat?
Europe flings you scoff for scoff;
Turkey owes you many a debt;
One she pays your Menschikoff;
One Sebastopol shall pay;
There another soon we score;
Well may Russia dread the day,
When, O Czar, we reckon four!
Europe flings you scoff for scoff;
Turkey owes you many a debt;
One she pays your Menschikoff;
One Sebastopol shall pay;
There another soon we score;
Well may Russia dread the day,
When, O Czar, we reckon four!
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