Category Archives: Napoleonic Wars

Victor Hugo: “The Retreat From Moscow”

Excerpt, “A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.




It snowed. A defeat was our conquest red !

For once the Eagle was hanging its head.

Sad days! the Emperor turned slowly his back

On smoking Moscow, blent orange and black.

The winter burst, avalanche-like, to reign

Over the endless blanched sheet of the plain.


Nor chief, nor banner in order could keep.

The wolves of warfare were ‘wildered like sheep.

The wings from centre could hardly be known

Through snow o’er horses and carts o’erthrown,

Where froze the wounded. In the bivouacs forlorn

Strange sights and gruesome met the breaking morn :


Mute were the bugles, while the men bestrode

Steeds turned to marble, unheeding the goad.

The shells and bullets came down with the snow

As though the heavens hated these poor troops below.

Surprised at trembling, though it was with cold.

Who ne’er had trembled out of fear, the veterans bold

Marched stern ; to grizzled moustache hoar-frost clung

‘Neath banners that in leaden masses hung.

It snowed, went snowing still. And chill the breeze

Whistled upon the glassy, endless seas,

Where naked feet on, on for ever went,

With naught to eat, and not a sheltering tent.



They were not living troops as seen in war,

But merely phantoms of a dream, afar

In darkness wandering, amid the vapour dim—

A mystery ; of shadows a procession grim,

Nearing a blackening sky, into its rim.

Frightful, since boundless, solitude behold

Where only Nemesis wove, mute and cold,

A net all snowy with its soft meshes dense,

A shroud of magnitude for host immense ;


Till every one felt as if left alone

In a wide wilderness where no light shone,

To die, with pity none, and none to see

That from this mournful realm none should get free.

Their foes the frozen North and Czar—That, worse.

Cannons were broken up in haste accurst

To burn the frames and make the pale fire high,

Where those lay down who never woke, or woke to die.


Sad and commingled, groups that blindly fled

Were swallowed smoothly by the desert dread.

‘Neath folds of blankness, monuments were raised

O’er regiments. And History, amazed,

Could not record the ruin of this retreat,

Unlike a downfall known before the defeat

Of Hannibal—reversed and wrapped in gloom!

Of Attila, when nations met their doom !


Perished an army—fled French glory then.

Though there the Emperor ! he stood and gazed

At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed

In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw

He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.

Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love

Kept those that rose all dastard fear above.


As on his tent they saw his shadow pass—

Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas !

His fortune’s star! it could not, could not be

That he had not his work to do—a destiny ?

To hurl him headlong from his high estate,

Would be high treason in his bondman. Fate,

But all the while he felt himself alone,

Stunned with disasters few have ever known.


Sudden, a fear came o’er his troubled soul.

What more was written on the Future’s scroll ?

Was this an expiation ? It must be, yea !

Returned to God for one enlightening ray.

” Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts? ” he sighed,

But the first murmur on his parched lips died.

” Is this the vengeance ? Must my glory set”

A pause : his name was called ; of flame a jet

Sprang in the darkness—a Voice

answered: “No! Not yet.”

Outside still fell the smothering snow.

Was it a voice indeed ? or but a dream !

It was the vulture’s, but how like the sea-bird’s scream.

Songs of the Liberation War: “Was Blasen Die Trompeten”

Excerpt, “War Songs of the Germans with Historical Illustrations of the Liberation War and the Rhine Boundary.” By John Stuart Blackie. Edinburgh: 1870.

Marschall Vorwärts by Emil Hünten (1863).

Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, Fürst von Wahlstatt

Marschall Vorwärts by Emil Hünten




Why blare loud the trumpets? To horse, ye hussars!

’Tis the gallant old field-marshal that rides to the wars!

So cheerily rides he his own good steed,

So brightly his sword flashes time to his speed;

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


O see how his blue eye, so clear and so kind,

Is beaming, and wave his white locks to the wind!

Like a stout old wine, so mellow and so fine,

O he’s the man to marshal the sons of the Rhine!

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


O he is the man, when all was dark and dim,

Who waved his sword in Heaven’s eye—’twas all bright to him!

He swore by his true steel to teach them yet aright—

He swore an angry oath-how the Germans can fight.

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


His good oath he kept: When the war-cry rang,

On his horse, with a bound, bold Blücher sprang;

And his clear blue eye shot fire to wash the shame

Of Auerstadt and Jena from the German name.

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


At Lützen; impatient, he headed the van,

Like a strong young lion, the old veteran:

There the Teut first taught the hot Frenchman to bleed,

By the altar of freedom, the stone of the Swede.

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


The Katzbach was red with the fierce drifting rain,

But eve saw it redder with the blood of the slain!

‘Fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well! And fairly may’st thou sail,

And find a grave, false Frantzmann, with the Baltic whale.’

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


Then forward, my brave boys, begun’s half done:

We’ll teach the nimble Corsican to run, boys, run!

O’er the Elbe, o’er the Elbe, now Preuss and Swede advance,

And the fleet Don Cossack with his long, long lance!

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


On the red field of Leipzig he laid the French pride low;

He blew the blast of freedom loud at Leipzig, Oho!

They fell, there they fell, ne’er to rise from their fall;

And we cheered old Blücher there—

Long live the Field-marshal!

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!


Then blow loud, yet trumpets, and tramp, ye hussars!

’Tis our old Field-marshal that rides to the wars:

To the Rhine, to the Rhine, and beyond the Rhine’s the way,

Thou doughty old Field-marshal, God be with thee aye!

Sound fife, trump and drum! For the Germans are come!

Hurrah for right and liberty, the Germans are come!



Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher in Bautzen 1813


George Croly: “The French Army in Russia”

“A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.

Napoleon_near_BorodinoNapoleon Near Borodino




Magnificence of ruin ! what has time

In all it ever gazed upon of war,

Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime,

Seen, with that battle’s vengeance to compare ?

How glorious shone the invader’s pomp afar!

Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ;

The land before them silence and despair.

The land behind them massacre and flame ;

Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now?

A name.

Smolensk_by_hessBattle of Smolensk


Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep,

Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood.

When mighty torrents from their channels leap,

Rushed through the land the haughty multitude,

Billow on endless billow ; on through wood,

O’er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale,

The death-devoted moved, to clangour rude

Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail,

Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale.

Battle-of-BorodinoBattle of Borodino


Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still

Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay,

The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill,

Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay ;

In vain the startled legions burst away ;

The land was all one naked sepulchre;

The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay,

Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear.

Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses

Mouldering drear.

Battle of MaloyaroslavetsBattle of Maloyaroslavets

The field was as they left it ; fosse and fort

Steaming with slaughter still, but desolate ;

The cannon flung dismantled by its port ;

Each knew the mound, the black ravine whose strait

Was won and lost,, and thronged with dead, till fate

Had fixed upon the victor,—half undone.

There was the hill, from which their eyes elate

Had seen the burst of Moscow’s golden zone ;

But death was at their heels, they shuddered and rushed on.


The hour of vengeance strikes. Hark to the gale !

As it bursts hollow through the rolling clouds.

That from the north in sullen grandeur sail

Like floating Alps. Advancing darkness broods

Upon the wild horizon, and the woods,

Now sinking into brambles, echo shrill,

As the gust sweeps them, and those upper floods

Shoot on their leafless boughs the sleet-drops chill,

That on the hurrying crowds in freezing showers distil.


They reach the wilderness ! The majesty

Of solitude is spread before their gaze.

Stern nakedness,—dark earth and wrathful sky.

If ruins were there, they long had ceased to blaze ;

If blood was shed, the ground no more betrays.

Even by a skeleton, the crime of man ;

Behind them rolls the deep and drenching haze,

Wrapping their rear in night ; before their van

The struggling daylight shows the unmeasured desert wan.


Still on they sweep, as if their hurrying march

Could bear them from the rushing of His wheel

Whose chariot is the whirlwind. Heaven’s clear arch

At once is covered with a livid veil ;

In mixed and fighting heaps the deep clouds reel ;

Upon the dense horizon hangs the sun,

In sanguine light, an orb of burning steel;

The snows wheel down through twilight, thick and dun ;

Now tremble, men of blood, the judgment has begun !


The trumpet of the northern winds has blown,

And it is answered by the dying roar

Of armies on that boundless field o’erthrown.

Now in the awful gusts the deserts hoar

Is tempested, a sea without a shore,

Lifting its feathery waves. The legions fly ;

Volley on volley down the hailstones pour;

Blind, famished, frozen, mad, the wanderers die.

And dying, hear the storm but wilder thunder by.


Such is the hand of Heaven ! A human blow

Had crushed them in the flight, or flung the chain

Round them where Moscow’s stately towers were low

And all bestilled. But thou ! thy battle-plain

Was a whole empire ; that devoted train

Must war from day to day with storm and gloom,

(Man following, like the wolves, to rend the slain)

Must lie from night to night as in a tomb.

Must fly, toil, bleed for home ; yet never see that home.


Julia Augusta Maynard: “The Battle of Lodi”

Excerpt, “A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.


The Battle of Lodi

10 May, 1796




The signals giv’n! Impatient neigh

The snorting chargers at the cry

Which calls proud Austria forth today,

To “charge with all her chivalry.”


Hark to the deep and muffled drum!

Announcing death so near at hand;

The foe! The foe! They onward come;

May heaven uphold the Austrian band!


Mark ye, the eagle standards wave

Above the torrent’s crimson tide!

Oh! Mark ye how for glory’s grave

Those gallant horsemen forward ride!


Two despots meet; the one by right

Defends what ages make his own;

The other, in the pride of might,

Stands forth all-conquering and alone.


This last, upon the battle-field,

With eye which beams with living fire,

Arm’d with a dread and puissant shield,

Defies the German’s wildest ire.


Yon bridge, where slaughter yet unsafe,

Still revels in its gory bed,

Groans now beneath the growing weight

Of living—dying—and of dead.


’T is over! And France foredoom’d to sway

Where’er her flashing eagle shone,

Hears the proud victor named that day

In victory’s shout—“Napoleon!”


Theodor Körner: “Men and Knaves”


Battle of Nations 1813





The storm is out; the land is roused;

Where is the coward who sits well-housed?

Fie, on thee, boy, disguised in curls,

Behind the stove, ‘mong gluttons and girls!

   A graceless, worthless wight thou must be;

   No German maid desires thee,

   No German song inspires thee,

   No German Rhine-wine fires thee.

       Forth in the van,

       Man by man,

   Swing the battle-sword who can!


When we stand watching, the livelong night,

Through piping storms, till morning light,

Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,

And there in dreams of rapture sleep.




When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet’s blast,

Like the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat fast,

Thou in the theatre lov’st to appear,

Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.




When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,

When our parched lips seek water in vain,

Thou canst make the champagne corks fly,

At the groaning tables of luxury.




When we, as we rush to the strangling fight,

Send home to our true loves a long “Good night,”

Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,

And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.




When lance and bullet come whistling by,

And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,

Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill

King, queen, and knave, with thy spadille.




If on the red field our bell should toll,

Then welcome be death to the patriot’s soul.

Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,

And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.

   A pitiful exit thine shall be;

   No German maid shall weep for thee,

   No German song shall they sing for thee,

   No German goblets shall ring for thee.

       Forth in the van,

       Man for man,

   Swing the battle-sword who can!


Boney’s Lamentation

The lyrics and background of Boney’s Lamentation are from The Contemplator’s Microencyclopedia of Folk MusicVisit here to download the music! This ballad is also known as Boney’s Abdication, and abdication may be used to replace the word lamentation.

Older versions of the song retained the sequence of events for Napoleon’s rise and fall, but corrupted the names. Broadwood restored the correct names in this version. Broadwood collected this in Sussex in 1893.

Because the song ends with Napoleon’s abdication and does not mention Waterloo it is probable the words were composed in 1814. The air is a variant of The Princess Royal, by Turlough O’Carolan (1670-1738). The tune appeared in print in Walsh’s Complete Dancing Master (circa 1730). 

Pierre Gautherot - Napoléon Wounded Before Ratisbonne 1810

Napoléon Wounded Before Ratisbonne 1810 by Pierre Gautherot


Boney’s Lamentation


Attend, you sons of high renown,
To these few lines which I pen down:
I was born to wear a stately crown,
And to rule a wealthy nation.
I am the man that beat Beaulieu,
And Wurmser’s will did then subdue;
That great Archduke I overthrew.
On every plain
My men were slain.
Grand treasures, too, I did obtain,
And got capitulation.

I did pursue the Egyptians sore,
Till Turks and Arabs lay in gore;
The rights of France I did restore
So long in confiscation.
I chased my foes through mud and mire
Till in despair my men did tire.
Then Moscow town was set on fire,
My men were lost
Through winter frost;
I ne’er before received such blast
Since the hour of my creation.

To Leipsic town my soldiers fled,
Montmartre was strewed with Prussian dead,
We marched them forth, inveterate,
To stop a bold invasion.
Farewell, my royal spouse, once more,
And offspring great, whom I adore!
And may you that great throne restore,
That is torn away,
Without delay!
Those kings of me have made a prey,
And caused my lamentation.

Victor Hugo: “The Grande Armée”

Excerpt, “A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.

While the Revolution went on and its effect were being felt from one end of France to the other; while the guillotine ran red with blood, and brother condemned brother to suffer beneath its awful knife; while it was a question of extreme doubt what precise form the government would assume, the soldiers of France, fighting her battles on the frontiers, held firm for the honour of their country. Barefooted, without arms and without food, they fought against combined Europe. Victory after victory they won; until, driven beyond the Rhine, the invaders were glad to sue for peace. These were the men who were to make possible the name of Napoleon, and well did they merit better than they then received. The glory, the honour, the future of France were in their keeping, and never once did they betray the trust.





Soldiers of our Year Two! O wars! O epic songs!

Drawing at once their swords against all Crowned Wrongs,

In Prussian, Austrian bounds,

And against all the Tyres and Sodoms of the earth,

And him the man-hunter, the Tzar o’ the icy North,

Follow’d by all his hounds.


And against Europe all, with all its captains proud,

With all its foot-soldiers whose might the plains did crowd,

With all its horsemen fleet,

All risen against France, with many a hydra head—

They sang as on they march’d, their spirits without dread,

And without shoes their feet.


At early dawn, at eve, South, North, and everywhere,

With their old muskets on their shoulders, rattling there,

Passing both rock and flood,

Without sleep or rest, foodless, and ragged too,

Joyous and proud they went, and their shrill trumpets blew.

As only demons could.


Sublimest Liberty fill’d evermore their thought;

Fleets taken sword in hand, and frontiers set at nought—

So sovereignly they go;

O France! On every day some prodigy they dare—

Encounters, combats, shocks—on Adige’ side Joubert,

And on the Rhine Marceau.


The vanguard they o’ercame, the centre thy o’erthrew;

In the snow, and in the rain, water their middles to,

On went they, ever on:

And one sued them for peace, and one flung wide his gate;

And thrones were scattered like dead leaves, here of late,

Now at the wind’s breath gone.


O soldiers! You were grand, in the midst of battle-shocks,

With your lightning-flashing eyes and wild dishevel’d locks

In the wild whirlwind black;

Impetuous, ardent, radiant, tossing back your heads,

Like lions snuffing up the North-wind when he treads

Upon his tempest track!


Drunken and madly rapt in their great epic deeds,

They savour’d all the mirth of most heroic needs—

Steel clashing here and there,

The winged Marseillaise flying amid the balls,

The grenades and the drums, the bomb-shells and cymbals,

And thy clear laugh, Kleber!


The Revolution cried—Die, O my volunteers!

Die to deliver all the people from their fears!

Their answering hands they raised.

Go, my old soldiers! Go, my beardless generals!

And Victory proudly march’d to the sound of bare foot falls

Over the world amazed.


Disheartening and fear to them were all unknown;

They had without a doubt over the high clouds gone,

If their audacity

In its Olympic race one moment had look’d back,

And seen the Republic point over their glorious track

Her finger to the sky.






Victor Hugo: “Ode To The Column of Napoleon”

Excerpt, “A Metrical History of the Life and Times of Napoleon Bonaparte: A Collection of Poems and Songs. Many from Obscure and Anonymous Sources, Selected and Arranged with Introductory Notes and Connective Narrative.” William J. Hillis. 1896.

Soon after the victory of Austerlitz, peace was declared and Napoleon was at liberty once more to return to his beloved Paris.  There, he devoted himself, with all the force of his mighty genius, to the creation of those magnificent works of art and of public utility which stamp his name on the history of France even to this day.

Out of the cannon taken from his enemies, he constructed that noble monument in the Place Vendome, which told so vividly the exploits of the Grand Army, to whose fidelity and courage it was consecrated.



On the foundation that his glory laid,
With indestructible materials made,
Alike secure from ruin and from rust,
Before whose might all monuments are dust,
The eternal Column, towering far on high,
Presents Napoleon’s throne unto the sky.

Well deemed the hero, when his sovereign hand,
Fatigued with war, the lasting trophy planned,
That civil discord would retire in shame
Before the vast memorial of his name;
And that the nation would forget to praise
The deeds of those who shone in ancient days..

Around the earth his veterans he had led,
O’er smoking fields encumbered with the dead,
And from the presence of that host so true
Armies and kings in wild confusion flew,
Leaving their ponderous cannon on the plain,
A prey to him and his victorious train!

Then, when the fields of France again were trod,
By him who came triumphant as a god,
Bearing the spoils of the defeated world,
He came mid joyous cries and flags unfurled,
Welcome as eagle to her infant brood
That waits on mountain-top its daily food!

But he, intent on his stupendous aims,
Straightway proceeds to where the furnace flames;
And while his troops, with haste and zealous glow,
The massive ordinance in the caldron throw,
He to the meanest artisan unfolds
His plans to form the fashion of the moulds.

Then to the war he led his troops once more,
And from the foe the palm of conquest bore,
He drove the opponent armies from the plain,
And seized their dread artillery again,
As good material for the Column high,
Built to perpetuate his memory!

Such was his task!  The roaring culverin,
The spur, the sabre, and the mortar’s din,
These were his earliest sports till Egypt gave
Her ancient pyramids his smile to save;
Then, when the imperial crown adorned his brow,
He raised the monument we reverence now!

He raised that monument!  The grandest age
Which e’er the historian’s annals might engage
Furnished the subject, and the end of time
Shall boast that emblem of his course sublime;
Where Rhine and Tiber rolled in crimson flood,
And the tall snow-capped Alps all trembling stood!

For even as the giant race of old
Ossa on Pelion, mount on mountain, rolled,
To scale high heaven’s towers, so he has made
His battles serve to help his escalade;
And thus to gratify his fancy wild,
Wagram, Arcole, on Austerlitz were piled!

The sun unveiled himself in beauty bright,
The eyes of all beamed gladness and delight,
When, with unruffled visage, thou did’st come,
Here of France!  Unto the Place Vendome,
To mark thy Column towering from the ground,
And the four eagles ranged the base around.

‘T was then, environed by thy warriors tried,
As erst the Romans flocked to Aemilius’ side,
“T was then each child – each infant, on whose head
Six summers scarcely had their radiance shed –
Murmured applause, and clapped their little hands,
And spied their fathers midst thy serried bands.

Oh, when thou stood’st there, godlike, proud, and great,
Pondering on conquest, majesty, and state,
Who would have thought that e’er the time could be
When a base senate should dishonour thee,
And cavil o’er thine ashes, for Vendome
At least is worthy to become thy tomb!



Adolf Ludwig Follen: “Blücher’s Ball”

In the battle of Katzbach, which was fought on the 26th of August, 1813, the Russians and Prussians, under the command of the veteran Field-marshal Blücher, defeated the French, who were led by Macdonald, Ney, Lauriston and Sabastiani, and were driven pell-mell into the Katzbach.Skirmishes had previously taken place at Goldberg and Jauer.The day of the battle was rainy, and the soldiers fought with clubbed muskets.The poet represents the scene as a ball, under the direction of old Blücher, who had received, from his vigor and promptitude, the name of “Marshal Forward.”


Battle of Katzbach – Klein, 1825


By the Katzbach, by the Katzbach, ha!

There was a merry dance;

Wild and weird and whirling waltzes skipped

Ye through, ye knaves of France!


For there struck the great bass-viol

An old German man famed,

Marshal Forward, Prince of Wallstadt,

Gebhardt Lebrecht von Blücher named.


Up! The Blücher hath the ball-room

Lighted with the cannon’s glare!

Spread yourselves, ye gay, green carpets,

That the dancing moistens there!


And his fiddle-bow at first he waved

With Goldberg and with Jauer;

Whew!  He’s drawn it now full length,

His play a stormy northern shower!


Ha!  The dance went briskly onward,

Tingling madness seized them all;

As when howling, mighty tempests

On the arms of windmills fall.


But the old man wants it cheery,

Wants a pleasant dancing chime;

And with gun-stocks clearly, loudly,

Beats the old Teutonic time.


Say, who, standing by the old man,

Strikes so hard the kettle-drum,

And, with crushing strength of arm,

Down lets the thundering hammer come?


Gneisenau, the gallant champion:

Alemannia’s envious foes

Smites the mighty pair, her living double-eagle,

Shivering blows.


Ernst Moritz Arndt: “Field-Marshal Blücher”

Excerpt, ” German Literature. Translated from the German of Wolfgang Menzel.” By C.C. Felton. 1840.
This patriotic writer was born 1769 at Schoritz in Rügen. Toward the end of the last century, he distinguished himself as a traveler, and by his published observations on Sweden, Italy, France, Germany, Hungary, etc. In 1806, he was appointed Professor Extraordinary of Philosophy at Greifswald. He was a vehement lover of liberty, and, though at first a favorer of Napoleon, became one of his bitterest opponents, as soon as he comprehended his designs of conquest.
A work published by him called “The Spirit of the Age” went rapidly through several editions, excited universal attention by the boldness of his attacks on Napoleon, and made it necessary for him to take refuge in Stockholm, whence he was unable to return until 1813. His writings which flowed in rapid succession exercised an immense influence upon the popular feeling.
Arndt is one of the most vigorous, animated and eloquent of the German writers. His prose works have had an extraordinary circulation and effect. His patriotic and popular poems and his war-songs are of distinguished excellence. They were published at Frankfort in 1815 and again at Leipsic in 1840.


Victory at Waterloo: Duke of Wellington and Field-Marshal Blücher.

Field-Marshal Blücher


Why are the trumpets blowing?  Ye hussars, away!

‘T is the Field-Marshal rideth, with flying fray;

He rideth so joyous his mettlesome steed,

He swingeth so keenly his bright-flashing blade!


His oath he hath redeemed; when the battle cry rang.

Ha! The old boy! How to saddle he sprang!

It was he who led off the last dance of the ball;

With besom of iron he swept clean the hall!


At Lützen, on the mead, there he struck such a blow,

That end with the fright stood the hair of the foe,

That thousands ran off with hurrying tread,

Ten thousand slept soundly the peace of the dead!


At Katzbach, by the stream, he there played his part;

He taught you, O Frenchmen, the swimmer’s good art!

Farewell to you, Frenchmen, away to the waves!

And take, ye sans-culottes, the whales for your graves!


At Wartburg, on the Elbe, how before him all yielded!

Nor fortress nor castle the Frenchmen shielded;

Again they must spring like hares o’er the field,

And the hero’s hurrah after them pealed.


At Leipsic, on the mead, – O, honor’s glorious fight!

There he shattered the fortunes of France and her might;

There lie they all safely, since so hardly they fell;

And there the old Blücher played the field-marshal well.



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