Subject: RE: Napoleonic ballads translated to English
From:
Joe Offer
Date: 23 Aug 15 - 05:28 PM
Interesting topic, Eoin. I hope you get some answers. Take a look atIt's a British broadside, but it certainly tells the story from a pro-Russian perspective.
THE CORSICAN HUMBLED,
OR,
Bonaparte's Disasters in Russia.
TUNE?" Green grows the Rashes O"
LET suff'ring Europe lift her head,
Proud Bonaparte is humbled now,
His routed legions fleeing are,
Before brave Gen'ral Kutusow.
Three hundred thousand Conscript Youths
The base Usurper forc'd from home,
And march'd them many hundred. miles
To spoil the Russians of their own.
Now let us pray that soon we'll see
Of meek-ey'd Peace the cheering ray,
And that the direful strife of War
May cease till Earth dissolves away!
But Russia's hardy Sons resolv'd
To save their Country, or to die,
And arm'd themselves. like Patriots,
To meet their haughty Enemy.
The Russian King to Britain look'd
For counsel, which he'd act upon,
And campaign plans were soon laid down
by gallant Gen'ral Wellington.
Now let us pray, &c.
The Tyrant, with his hosts, advanc'd.'
While vict'ry on him seem'd to flow ;
Tho twenty thousand men he lost,
Before the town of Smolensko.
The Russians, faithful to their plans,
Allowe'd him farther on to go.
Until a bloody check he got,
At the battle of Borodino.
Now let us pray, &c.
Three days that battle's fury rag'd,
At length his weaken'd ranks recoil,
And forty thousand of his men
Lay bleeding on the Russian soil.
But being quickly re-enforced.
He straight to Moscow bent his way;
The Russians, weaken'd by their loss,
Could not well then his progress stay.
Now let us pray. &c.
But still resolv'd he should not get
Muscow in all its ancient pride,
They burn'd it to the ground and left
A heap of calcin'd ruins wide
Of winter quarters thus depriv'd.
The Corsican was fairly foil'd,
For no resource he now had left,
But to steal back thro' dreary wilds.
Now let us pray, &c.
The bitter Russian winter cold
With icy fangs held all things fast.
Whilst robust Natives keep the field,
Regardless of the northern blast.
O! hapless men! Thy Despot doom'd
To wander through the Russias, drear,
Or perish in the chilling snows,
Far, far from home, and all that's dear!
Now let us pray, &c.
The mis'ries that are falling on
The humbled Tyrant's wretched crew,
Distress the feeling heart, to tell,
And nature sickens at the view!
His horse, in thousands, daily die!
His men their lives to hunger yield!
Or, quite benumb'd with polar frost,
Expire upon the snow-clad field!
Now let us pray, &c.
The roads are strew'd with waggons, guns,
And implements that war do wage,
And slaughter'd men - a wretched prey
To Cossacs' unrelenting rage!
To Poland bleak, he shap'd his course,
Close hunted by the Cossac band;
Who nobly strove to cut him off,
And to arrest his bloody hand.
Now let us pray, &c.
But, in disguise and sad dismay,
The Galic Chief to Paris fled,
Unmindful of the wretched men.
He,d onward to destruction led.
His num'rous army, once so gay,
In captive chains now long may pine,
And linger out a joyless life,
Within Siberis's barren clime.
Now let us pray, &c.
O, Bonaparte, thou greatest scourge
That Europe s nations ever saw,
Thy wicked reign seems nigh an end,
A reign that spurn'd at ev'ry law!
The waste of human life thou'st made,
The Widows and the Orphans, too,
Thy mem'ry's bloody stain shall stand,
A stain time cannot blot from view !
Now let us pray, &c.
J. Morren, printer
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