On the Battle of Waterloo
Come, bring the laurel blooming green, and floweret wet with dew,
The grave of many a warrior chief, with grateful tears to strew,
Who bravely, in their Country’s cause, fell, fighting bold and true,
Upon the ever glorious plains, the Plains of Waterloo.
Oh, Albion! long the praise of worlds shall centre thy name,
The dread of tyrants e’er shall be thy dauntless sons of fame;
The first to rise at Freedom’s call, when War his requiem blew,
Upon the ever glorious plains, the Plains of Waterloo.
Oh! how shall we depict the scene, or how shall we portray
The fearful fight and conflict dire, which marked that dreadful day,
As firm they stood, their swords in blood all eager to embrue,
Upon the ever glorious plains, the Plains of Waterloo.
I hear my country’s Heroes, forth their shouts triumphant send,
I see them, on the Sons of France, with force resistless bend;
With blood, confusion, and defeat, the Gauls as lightning flew,
Chased by the Sons of England from the Plains of Waterloo.
The Sun hailed Albion’s bold career, and she a parting ray
On those with whom the starting tear shall name the fatal day;
That Sun, on them for ever set, no more their eyes should view,
A grave of glory and renown, was their’s at Waterloo.
Their country’s thunders to the world proclaimed, with vengeful roar,
The Star of Gaul, that day, had set to rise again no more:
Oh, Gaul! be warned, nor secret sigh, war’s conflicts to renew,
Let Mercy plead, dwell at rest, and remember Waterloo.
In time remote, midst empires wrecked, and ages passed away,
Unfading still the laurels of that memorable day,
From year to year, bright Glory’s page, the theme will bring to view,
Of England’s never-dying fame achieved at Waterloo.