Ashes of Napoleon
THE ASHES OF
William Pratt, Printer, 82, Digbeth, Birmingham.
Attend ye gallant heroes hold, unto these lines I will unfold.
The deeds of valiant heroes I am going to relate,
Who for centuries that are gone by, for England fought most
And in the British records there you will find the date;
But of a valiant Corsican as ever stood "on Europe's land,
I am inclined to sing praises, how noble was his heart,
In every battle manfully, he struggled hard for liberty,
And to the world a terror was Napoleon 'Bonaparte.
And now across the foaming waves, to fetch from St. Helena's
The proud and gallant Frenchmen so boldly depart;
To bring away as Britons say, and consecrate without delay,
In Paris town the ashes of Napoleon Bonaparte.
We read of Marlborough, we read of valiant Nelson,
We read of noble Jarvis, brave Howe and valiant Blake,
Of Wolfe and Abercrotobie, great men who fought by land
Back from the days of Wellington unto Sir Frances Drake.
They all were men of courage true, and fought like Britons
of true blue.
Always were undaunted so noble were their hearts ;
But Europe we must understand, could not boast of late of
such a man,
As the valiant little Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte.
When at the Isle of Elba Napoleon fought for liberty,
And when he cross'd the Alps he did the world amaze,
He would never yield when in the field, but strive to gain
Europe will long remember how Moscow it did blaze;
But fatal Tune at Waterloo, did make Napoleon for to rue,
To see the tricks of Blucher struck terror to his heart,
It was then be bad to fight or run, he cried alas, I am undone,
Like a bullock sold in Smithfield was Napoleon Bonaparte,
It was in the days of Castlereagh, braye Bonaparte, was led
And the battle of great Waterloo was bought for English
We long may recollect the day, when Grouchy did the French
And brave Napoleon Bonaparte upon the ground was sold ;
He in the field then boldly stood, saying while I have life
I will not die coward, with his hand upon his heart,
I always proved myself a man. but now I can no longer stand,
My glass is nearly run, cried Napoleon Bonaparte.
He was by friends forsaken, and prisoner was taken,
And he was sent to England just like a convict slave.
Far across the briny waves, a gallant soldier bold and brave,
On board the Bellerophon Man-of War to Plymouth Sound
Where he a little time did lay, and thousands flocked by night
From here and there and everywhere, in droves from every
They were struck with wonder and amaze, as anxiously they
on did gaze,
The valiant little Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte.
Then soon it was concluded Napoleon should be banished,
Unto some distant Island where he no more should smile,
Hut grieve and fret, oh ! how hard his fate,
His days to end in misery on St. Helena's Isle:
Louisa for her husband wept, and day nor night she seldom
The briny tears rolled from her eves to soothe her aching
Where is my Emperor, she cried, oh ! cursed be the gold
False Grouchy to betray my brave Napoleon Bonaparte,
Some years he lived an exile, and mounted on St. Helena's
And there, alas ! he was deprived of every bosom friend,
He respected was by high and low, through Europe where
soe'er you go,
On the Isle of St, Helena he there Irs days did end :
Re cried, my glass is nearly run, I can behold my setting sun,
And while he spoke he gently laid bis hand upon his heart,
He looked around and gave a smile, and died on St. Helena's
And there they laid the ashes of Napoleon Bonaparte,
Now to erect a monument, agreed has every soldier,
The peer, likewise the peasant, every Frenchman bold and
And in a very little while, they'll bring from St. Helena's
The ashes of Napoleon that lies mouldering the grave ;
In the city of great Paris a tomb will be erected.
So splendidly for to contain his ashes and his heart,
And rich and poor that pass that way, will joyfully a tribute
To the ashes and memory of Napoleon Bonaparte,
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