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Was O that wild beaten track
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Ay, friend o 'er that bold
boulder path,
It paced the sands and loved the rocks
Of St Helena's shore.
The wind blew in a hurricane,
The lightning flashed around a dart,
The seagulls were all shrieking,
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and the waves around did roll.
A hush, rude winds, the stranger cried,
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While I deranged this dreary spot.
Well, at the gallant hero's hand
the eyes did close,
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But while his valiant limbs do rot,
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His name will never be forgot.
This grand conversation
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of Napoleon arose,
Ah, England, he cried,
why did you persecute that hero bold?
Much better had you slain him
on the plains of Waterloo.
Napoleon, he was a friend to heroes old,
both young and old.
He caused them money
for to fly wherever he did go.
Plans were arranging night and day,
This bold commander to betray.
He cries, I'll go to Moscow,
And then will ease my woes.
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If fortunes shine without delay,
All the world shall me obey.
This grand conversation of Napoleon arose,
Thousands and thousands then did rise
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To conquer Moscow by surprise
He led his men across the Alps
Oppressed by frost and snow
But being near the Russian lands
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He then began to open his eyes
For Moscow was a -blazing
And his men drove to and fro
Napoleon, dauntless,
viewed the flames,
he wept to anguish for the same
He cried, Retreat, my gallant men,
our time to swiftly go
One thousand died on that retreat
Some were their horses forced to eat
This grand conversation
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of Napoleon and us
At Waterloo his men they fought,
Commanded by great Bonaparte,
Attended by Field Marshal Dyer,
He was bribed with gold,
And blue chalet the Prussians in,
It nearly broke Napoleon's heart.
He cried, My thirty thousand men are slain,
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And I am sold.
He viewed the plains and cried his last,
Toward them his favourite
charger crossed.
The plains were in confusion,
with a gluttony dying fast,
Though the bunch of roses
did advance,
And boldly he entered into France.
This grand conversation
of Napoleon arose.
But Bonaparte was planned to be a
prisoner across the sea,
the rocks of St Helena.
It was the fatal spot.
And as a prisoner there to be,
to death he'd end his misery,
his son soon followed to
the tomb.
It was an awful plot.
And long enough they have been dead,
the blast of war is round us spread,
and may our shipping float
again
to face the daring foe.
And now, my boys, when honour calls,
we'll boldly mount the wooden walls.
This Grand Conversation
on Napoleon did close.
Eliza Carthy
