English Caricature and Satire on Napoleon I. Volume I (of 2)

CHAPTER XXXII

INVASION SQUIBS, continued– ‘BRITONS TO ARMS’ – BRAGGADOCIO – NAPOLEON’S EPITAPH

A most ghastly picture, which should not be called a caricature, yet is meant so to be, is by Gillray (July 26, 1803), and is called ‘Buonaparte forty-eight Hours after Landing!’ A crowd of rural volunteers are assembled, and one of them hoists the head of Napoleon upon a pitchfork, calling out ‘Ha, my little Boney! what do’st think of Johnny Bull, now? Plunder Old England! hay? make French slaves of us all! hay? ravish all our Wives and Daughters! hay? O Lord, help that silly Head! To think that Johnny Bull would ever suffer those lanthorn Jaws to become King of Old England Roast Beef and Plum pudding.’ Whilst on the top of the engraving is inscribed, ‘This is to give information for the benefit of all Jacobin Adventurers, that Policies are now open’d at Lloyd’s – where the depositer of One Guinea is entitled to a Hundred if the Corsican Cut throat is alive 48 Hours after Landing on the British Coast.’

Ansell also takes up this gruesome subject (August 6, 1803) in ‘After the Invasion. The Levée en Masse, or Britons Strike Home.’ The French have landed, but have been thoroughly defeated; the British soldiers driving them bodily over the cliffs, into the sea. The women are plundering the dead, but complain bitterly of the poverty of their spoil. ‘Why, this is poor finding, I have emptied the pockets of a score and only found garlic, one head of an onion, and a parcel of pill boxes.’ A rural volunteer, who has Bonaparte’s head on a pitchfork, addresses two comrades thus: ‘Here he is exalted, my Lads, 24 Hours after Landing.’ Says one of the countrymen, ‘Why, Harkee, d’ye zee, I never liked soldiering afore, but, somehow or other, when I thought of our Sal, the bearns, the poor Cows, and the Geese, why I could have killed the whole Army, my own self.’ The other remarks, ‘Dang my Buttons if that beant the head of that Rogue Boney – I told our Squire this morning, What do you think, says I, the lads of our Village can’t cut up a Regiment of them French Mounseers? and, as soon as the Lasses had given us a Kiss for good luck, I could have sworn we should do it, and so we have.’

Of loyal and patriotic songs, there are enough and to spare, but one was very popular, and therefore should be reproduced: —

BRITONS TO ARMS!!!

Written by Wm. Thos. Fitzgerald, Esqr.,

And Recited by him at the Annual Meeting of the

Literary Fund, at Greenwich

14 July, 1803

 
Britons to Arms! – of apathy beware,
And let your Country be your dearest care;
Protect your Altars! guard your Monarch’s throne,
The Cause of George and Freedom, make your own!
What! shall that England want her Sons’ support,
Whose Heroes fought at Cressy – Agincourt?
And when great Marlborough led the English Van,
In France, o’er Frenchmen triumphed to a man!
By Alfred’s great, and ever honoured, Name!
By Edward’s prowess, and by Henry’s fame!
By all the generous Blood for Freedom shed,
And by the Ashes of the Patriot Dead!
By the bright Glory Britons lately won,
On Egypt’s Plains, beneath the burning Sun!
Britons to Arms! defend your Country’s Cause,
Fight for your King! your Liberties; and Laws!
Be France defied, her slavish yoke abhor’d,
And place your safety only on your Sword.
The Gallic Despot, sworn your mortal Foe,
Now aims his last, – but his most deadly blow;
With England’s Plunder tempts his hungry Slaves,
And dares to brave you, on your Native Waves!
If Briton’s right be worth a Briton’s care,
To shield them from the Son of Rapine – swear!
Then to Invasion be defiance giv’n —
Your Cause is just – approv’d by Earth and Heaven.
Should adverse winds our gallant Fleet restrain,
To sweep his ‘bawbling⁸² vessels’ from the main;
And Fate permit him on our Shores t’advance —
The Tyrant never shall return to France;
Fortune, herself, shall be no more his friend,
And here the Hist’ry of his Crimes shall end —
His slaughter’d Legions shall manure our shore,
And England never know Invasion more.
 

This was the stilted sort of stuff given to our forefathers, to inflame their patriotic zeal, and this example is of good quality compared to most. Here is another one, which I give, as having the music, published July 30, 1803: —

BRITONS TO ARMS!

 
Cheerly my hearts of cour – age true, The hour’s at hand to
try your worth; a glo – rious pe – ril waits for you, And
val – our pants to lead you forth. The Gal – lic fleet ap -
– proaches nigh, boys, Now some must conquer, some must die, boys; But
that ap – pals not you nor me, For our watchword,
it shall be: Brit – ons strike home, re- venge your coun-try’s
wrongs, Brit-ons strike home, re – venge your country’s wrongs.
 

2

 
Undaunted Britons now shall prove
The Frenchman’s folly to invade
Our dearest rights, our country’s love,
Our laws, our freedom, and our trade;
On our white cliffs our colours fly, boys;
Which we’ll defend, or bravely die, boys;
For we are Britons bold and free,
And our watchword it shall be
Britons strike home, &c.
 

3

 
The Tyrant Consul, then too late,
Dismayed shall mourn th’ avenging blow
Yet vanquish’d, meet the milder fate
Which mercy grants a fallen foe:
Thus shall the British banners fly, boys,
On Albion’s cliffs still rais’d on high, boys,
And while the gallant flag we see,
We’ll swear our watchword still shall be
Britons strike home, &c.
 

About the last caricature in this month was by I. Cruikshank, who depicted Napoleon (July 28, 1803) as ‘Preparing to invade.’ He is pouring himself out a bumper, and soliloquising, ‘I must take a little Dutch Courage, for I am sure I shall never attempt it in my sober senses! Besides, when John Bull catches me, I can plead it was only a Drunken Frolick! Diable! if I not go, den all my Soldiers call me one Braggadocio, and one Coward, and if I do, begor, dey vil shew me in the Tower, as one very Great Wild Beast.’

I. Cruikshank (July 28, 1803) tells us ‘How to stop an invader.’ Napoleon, and his army, are represented as having landed, and he is asking ‘Which is the way to London?’ A countryman replies, giving emphasis to his words by driving his pitchfork deeply into the Consul’s breast, ‘Why, thro’ my Body – but I’se be thro’ yourn virst.’ His wife, as a type of what was expected of the women of England, is emptying the offensive contents of a domestic utensil over him. Bulldogs are let loose, and are rapidly making an end of their enemies, in which laudable enterprise they are materially assisted by prize-fighters and carters.

The month of August was very fruitful in caricature, for in that month, and in September, the Invasion scare was at its height.

There was an immense amount of Gasconading and Braggadocio going about, as senseless as it was improbable. Take this for example: ‘The Consequence of Invasion, or the Hero’s Reward. None but the brave deserve the fair. The Yeomanry Cavalry’s first Essay’ (Ansell, August 1, 1803). A stout yeoman is swaggering about, with his sword drawn, and carrying a pole, on the top of which is Bonaparte’s head, and, lower down, he grasps some fifteen or twenty bleeding heads of decapitated Frenchmen. He is saying, ‘There, you Rogues, there! there’s the Boney parts of them. Twenty more; Killed them!! Twenty more; Killed them too!! I have destroyed half the army with this same Toledo.’ Women from all parts are coming to hug and caress him, saying, ‘Bless the Warrior that saved our Virgin Charms.’ ‘Ah! bless him, he has saved us from Death and Vileation.’ ‘Take care, I’ll smother him with kisses.’ One lady says to a man, not a Volunteer: ‘There you Poltroon look how that Noble Hero’s caressed!’ whilst the poor wretch thus addressed exclaims, ‘Ods Niggins, I wish I had been a Soldier too, then the Girls would have run after me, but I never could bear the smell of Gunpowder.’

‘John Bull offering Little Boney fair play’ is the title of one of Gillray’s pictures (August 2, 1803), and depicts the fortified coasts on both sides of the Channel, with John Bull, as a Jack Tar, stripped to the waist for action. He wades half across to hurl defiance at his foe. ‘You’re a coming? You be d – d! If you mean to invade us, why make such a rout? I say little Boney, why don’t you come out? yes, d – n ye, why don’t ye come out?’ Meanwhile Boney, secure in his fortress, and with his flotilla safe on shore, looks over the parapet, and says, ‘I’m a coming! I’m a coming!!!’

His epitaph was even obligingly written for him during his lifetime, and here it is: —

EPITAPH

Underneath a Gibbet, over a Dunghill near Hastings,

close by the Sea Beach

Underneath this Dunghill

Is all that remains of a mighty Conqueror,

NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE

Who, with inflexible Cruelty of Heart,

And unexampled depravity of Mind,

Was permitted to scourge the Earth, for a Time,

With all the Horrors of War:

Too ignorant, and incapable, to do good to Mankind,

The whole Force of his Mind was employed

In oppressing the Weak, and plundering the Industrious:

He was equally detested by all;

His enemies he butchered in cold Blood;

And fearing to leave incomplete the Catalogue of his Crimes,

His friends he rewarded with a poison’d Chalice

He was an Epitome

Of all that was vicious in the worst of Tyrants;

He possess’d their Cruelty, without their Talents;

Their Madness, without their Genius;

The Baseness of one, and the Imbecility of another

Providence, at last,

Wearied out with his Crimes,

Returned him to the Dunghill from which he sprung;

After having held him forth

On the neighbouring Gibbet,

As a Scare-crow to the Invaders of the British Coast

This Beach,

The only Spot in our Isle polluted by his footsteps;

This Dunghill

All that remains to him of his boasted Conquest

Briton!

Ere you pass by

Kneel and thank thy God,

For all the Blessings of thy glorious Constitution;

Then return unto the peaceful Bosom of thy Family, and continue

In the Practice of those Virtues,

By which thy Ancestors

Merited the Favor of the Almighty

I. Cruikshank, in ‘Johnny Bull giving Boney a Pull’ (August 7, 1803), brought out a caricature in which is graphically depicted the total annihilation of the French flotilla, and John Bull is dragging Napoleon, by a cord round his neck, to a gallows, surrounded by people waving their hats in token of joy. Napoleon, not unnaturally, hangs back, remarking, ‘Ah! Misericordi! Ah! Misericordi! Jean Bool, Jean Bool, hanging not good for Frenchmen.’ But John pulls along manfully, exclaiming, ‘I shant measure the Cord, you F – . I am sure it is long enough for a dozen such Fellows as you.’

A picture by West (August 8, 1803), ‘Resolutions in case of an Invasion,’ is divided into six compartments. A tailor, with his shears, says, ‘I’ll trim his skirts for him.’ A barber, ‘I’ll lather his wiskers.’ An apothecary, with a pestle and mortar, ‘I’ll pound him.’ A cobbler, ‘I’ll strap his Jacket.’ A publican, ‘I’ll cool his Courage in a pot of Brown Stout.’ An epicure, ‘I’ll eat him.’

The punishment, for any attempt at invasion, was prophesied as being his certain downfall, and a nameless artist (August 12, 1803) produced an engraving of ‘A rash attempt, and woful downfall’ – Bonaparte snatching at the British Crown.

 
But as he climb’d to grasp the Crown,
She knock’d him with the Scepter down,
He tumbled in the Gulph profound,
There doom’d to whirl an endless Round.
 

Britannia is represented as standing on a cliff, with a crown upraised in her left hand, and a sceptre in her right. Napoleon is shewn as tumbling into the infernal regions, to the great joy of attendant demons.

‘Observations upon Stilts’ is by an unknown artist (August 12, 1803), and represents Bonaparte upon a huge pair of stilts. He is looking, over to England, through a telescope, and is saying, ‘How very diminutive everything appears from this astonishing elevation. Who is that little man, I wonder, on the Island, the other side the ditch? he seems to be watching my motions.’ John Bull, the person referred to, is also using his telescope, exclaiming, ‘Why surely that can’t be Bonny, perch’d up in that manner. Rabbit him! if he puts one of his Poles across here, I’ll soon lighten his timbers.’

CHAPTER XXXIII

INVASION SQUIBS, continued– ‘HARLEQUIN INVASION’ – ‘BOB ROUSEM’S EPISTLE’ – NAPOLEON’S TOUR TO BELGIUM

‘Harlequin Invasion’ is by West (August 12, 1803). Napoleon is a Harlequin, and points with his wooden sword ‘Invincible’ to Great Britain, which is surrounded by goodly ships of war. Pantaloon, as the Pope, typifying Italy, lies dead, and Holland, dressed as a Pierrot, does not relish the command of his master, who tells him, ‘As Pantaloon is no more, I insist on your joining me to invade that little island.’ Poor Holland replies, ‘D – m me – if I do, Master – for I don’t like the look of their little ships – can’t you let me be at quiet – whisking me here, and there, and everywhere.’

1

 
Ladies and Gentlemen, to day
With scenes adapted to th’ occasion
A Grand new Pantomime we play,
Entitled – Harlequin’s Invasion.
 

2

 
No comic Pantomime before
Could ever boast such tricks surprising;
The Hero capers Europe o’er,
But hush! behold the Curtain rising.
 

3

 
And first that little Isle survey,
Where sleeps a Peasant boy, so hearty;
That little Isle is Corsica,
That peasant boy is Bonaparte.
 

4

 
Now lightnings flash and thunders roar,
Dæmons of witchcraft hover o’er him;
And rising thro’ the stage trap door,
An evil genius stands before him.
 

5

 
His arms in solemn state are cross’d,
His voice appalls th’ amaz’d beholders;
His head in circling clouds is lost,
And crimson pinions shade his shoulders.
 

6

 
Mortal, awake! the phantom cries,
And burst the bonds of fear asunder!
My name is Anarchy; arise!
Thy future fortunes teem with wonder.
 

7

 
To spread my reign the earth around,
Here take this sword, whose magic pow’r,
Shall sense, and right, and wrong confound,
And work new wonders ev’ry hour.
 

8

 
Throw off that peasant garb, begin
T’ assume the party colour’d rover,
And, as a sprightly Harlequin,
Trip, lightly trip, all Europe over.
 

9

 
He spoke, and instant to the view
Begins the curious transformation;
His mask assumes a sable hue,
His dress a pantomimic fashion.
 

10

 
Now round the Stage, in gaudy pride
Capers the renovated varlet,
Shakes the lath weapon at his side,
And shines in blue, and white, and scarlet.
 

11

 
High on a rock, his cunning eye
Surveys half Europe at a glance;
Fat Holland, fertile Italy,
Old Spain, and gay, regenerate France.
 

12

 
He strikes, with wooden sword, the earth,
Which heaves with motion necromantic;
The nations own a second birth,
And trace his steps with gestures antic.
 

13

 
The Pope prepares for war, but soon
All pow’rful Harlequin disarms him,
And changing into Pantaloon,
Each motion frets, each noise alarms him.
 

14

 
With trembling haste he seeks to join
His daughter Gallia, lovely rover!
But she, transform’d to Columbine,
Her father scorns, and seeks her lover.
 

15

 
The Dutchman next his magic feels,
Chang’d to the Clown, he hobbles after;
Blund’ring pursues the light of heels,
Convulsing friends and foes with laughter.
 

16

 
But all their various deeds of sin,
What mortal man has ever reckon’d?
The mischief plann’d by Harlequin,
Fair Columbine is sure to second.
 

17

 
They quickly kill poor Pantaloon,
And now our drama’s plot grows riper,
When e’er they frisk it to some tune,
The Clown is forc’d to pay the piper.
 

18

 
Each foreign land he dances through,
In some new garb behold the Hero,
Pagan and Christian, Turk and Jew,
Cromwell, Caligula and Nero.
 

19

 
A Butcher, Harlequin appears,
The rapid scene to Egypt flying,
O’er captive Turks his steel up rears,
The stage is strew’d with dead and dying.
 

20

 
Next by the crafty genius taught,
Sportive he tries Sangrado’s trick,
Presents a bowl, with poison fraught,
And kills his own unconscious sick.
 

21

 
Hey pass! he’s back to Europe flown,
His hostile foll’wers disappointed:
Kicks five old women from the throne,
And dubs himself the Lord’s Anointed.
 

22

 
In close embrace with Columbine,
Pass, gaily pass, the flying hours;
While prostrate at their blood stained Shrine,
Low bow the European powers.
 

23

 
Touch’d by his sword, the morals fly,
The virtues, into vices dwindling,
Courage is turn’d to cruelty,
And public faith, to private swindling.
 

24

 
With Atheist Bishops, Jockey Peers,
His hurly burly Court is graced;
Contractors, Brewers, Charioteers,
Mad Lords, and Duchesses disgraced.
 

25

 
And now th’ Invasion scene comes on;
The patch’d and pyeball’d renegado,
Hurls at Britannia’s lofty throne
Full many an Insolent bravado.
 

26

 
The trembling Clown dissuades in vain
And finds too late, there’s no retreating,
Whatever Harlequin may gain,
The Clown is sure to have a beating.
 

27

 
They tempt the main, the canvas raise,
A storm destroys his valiant legions;
And lo! our closing scene displays
A grand view of th’ infernal regions.
 

28

 
Thus have we, gentlefolks, to day,
With pains proportion’d to th’ occasion,
Our piece perform’d: then further say,
How like you Harlequin’s Invasion?
 

BOB ROUSEM’S

EPISTLE TO

BONYPART

This comes hoping you are well, as I am at this present; but I say, Bony, what a damn’d Lubber you must be to think of getting soundings among us English. I tell ye as how your Anchor will never hold; it isn’t made of good Stuff, so luff up, Bony, or you’ll be fast aground before you know where you are. We don’t mind your Palaver and Nonsense; for tho’ ’tis all Wind, it would hardly fill the Stun’ sails of an English Man of War. You’ll never catch a Breeze to bring ye here as long as you live, depend upon it. I’ll give ye a Bit of Advice now; do try and Lie as near the Truth as possible, and don’t give us any more of your Clinchers. I say, do you remember how Nelson came round ye at the Nile? I tell ye what, if you don’t take Care what you are about, you’ll soon be afloat in a way you won’t like, in a High Sea, upon a Grating, my Boy, without a bit of soft Tommy to put into your lanthorn jaws. I tell you now, how we shall fill up the Log-Book if you come; I’ll give ye the Journal, my Boy, with an Allowance for Lee way and Variation that you don’t expect. Now then, at Five A.M. Bonypart’s Cock-Boats sent out to amuse our English Men-of-war with fighting, (that we like). Six A.M. Bonypart lands, (that is, if he can); then we begin to blow the Grampus; Seven A.M. Bonypart in a Pucker; Eight A.M. Bonypart running away; Nine A.M. Bonypart on board; Ten a.m. Bonypart sinking; Eleven a.m. Bonypart in Davy’s locker; Meridian, Bonypart in the North Corner of – , where it burns and freezes at the same time; but you know, any port in a storm, Bony, so there I’ll leave ye. Now you know what you have to expect; so you see you can’t say I didn’t tell ye. Come, I’ll give ye a Toast: Here’s Hard Breezes and Foul Weather to ye, my Boy, in your Passage; here’s May you be Sea Sick; we’ll soon make ye Sick of the Sea; Here’s, May you never have a Friend here, or a Bottle to give him. And to conclude: Here’s the French Flag where it ought to be, under the English.

 

his

Bob + Rousem

mark

P.S. You see as I coudn’t write, our Captain’s Clerk put the Lingo into black and white for me, and says he’ll charge it to you.

Woodward (August 13, 1803) illustrated a very amusing little ballad. The picture is simple. Napoleon, as usual, with an enormous cocked hat and sword. John Bull, of ample rotundity, with his oaken cudgel. It is called ‘John Bull and Bonaparte!! to the tune of the Blue Bells of Scotland.

 
When, and O when, does this little Boney come?
Perhaps he’ll come in August, perhaps he’ll stay at home;
But it’s O in my heart, how I’ll hide him should he come.
 
 
Where, and O where, does this little Boney dwell?
His birth-place is in Corsica – but France he likes so well,
That it’s O the poor French, how they crouch beneath his spell.
 
 
What cloathes, and what cloathes, does this little Boney wear?
He wears a large cock’d hat, for to make the people stare;
But it’s O my oak stick! I’d advise him to take care!
 
 
What shall be done, should this little Boney die?
Nine cats shall squall his dirge, in sweet melodious cry;
And it’s O in my heart, if a tear shall dim my eye!
 
 
Yet still he boldly brags, with consequence full cramm’d,
On England’s happy island his legions he will land;
But it’s O in my heart, if he does, may I be d – d.’
 

In June of this year, Bonaparte, and Josephine, took a tour into Belgium, and the Côtes du Nord. What it was like, cannot better be told than in the words of De Bourrienne. ‘Bonaparte left Paris on June 3: and, although it was not for upwards of a year afterwards, that his brow was encircled with the imperial diadem, everything connected with the journey, had an imperial air. It was formerly the custom, when the kings of France entered the ancient capital of Picardy, for the town of Amiens to offer them, in homage, some beautiful swans. Care was taken to revive this custom, which pleased Bonaparte greatly, because it was treating him like a king. The swans were accepted, and sent to Paris, to be placed in the basin of the Tuileries, in order to show the Parisians, the royal homage which the First Consul received, when absent from the Capital.’ So it was all through his progress. The caricature here described is, of course, exaggerated, but it shows the feeling which animated the popular breast on this particular journey.

‘Boney at Brussels’ is by I. Cruikshank (August 14, 1803), and here he is represented seated on a throne, with a Mameluke, armed with sword and pistol, on each side of him. He is provided with a huge fork in each hand, with which he is greedily feeding himself from dishes provided in the most humble and abject manner by all kinds of great dignitaries.

He has his mouth full of an ‘Address to the Deified Consul.’ The next morsel, which is on one of the forks, is ‘To the Grand Consular Deity,’ and the other fork is dug well into ‘We burn with desire to lick the Dust of your Deified feet.’ A prelate begs him to ‘Accept the Keys of Heaven and Hell;’ and other dishes are labelled ‘Act of Submission,’ ‘Your most abject Slave, Terror of France,’ and ‘The Idol of our Hearts, Livers, Lights, Guts, and Garbage, Souls and all.’

‘John Bull out of all Patience!!’ is by Roberts (August 16, 1803), and represents him in a Cavalry uniform, and a most towering rage, astride of the British Lion, which is swimming across to France. He is shouting out, ‘I’ll be after you, my lads – do you think I’ll stay at home waiting for you? If you mean to come, d – n it, why don’t you come? do you think I put on my regimentals for nothing?’ Boney and his army are running away, the former calling out ‘Dat is right my brave Friends, take to your heels, for here is dat dam Jean Bool coming over on his Lion.’

The subjoined illustration also does duty for ‘The Sorrows of Boney, or Meditations in the Island of Elba, April, 15, 1814,’ but, having priority, it appears here as: —

‘CROCODILE’S TEARS

OR

Bonaparte’s Lamentation

A NEW SONG

Tune ‘Bow, wow, wow.’

 
By gar, this Johnny Bull – be a very cunning elf, Sir,
He by de Arts and Commerce thrive, and so he gain de pelf, Sir;
But he no let us rob de land – or else, with naval thunder,
He’ll send dat lion bold, Jack Tar, and make us all strike under.
Lack, Lack a day, fal lal, &c.
By gar, de British Bulvarks be – a very grand annoyance,
I’m told, against all EUROPE join’d, they’ve often dar’d defiance!
Then what can France and Holland do? By gar, dat day me rue, Sir,
When I de peaceful Treaty broke – to England prov’d untrue, Sir.
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
And then, when in von passion thrown, by gar, I took occasion,
To shew de Gasconade de France! and threat them with Invasion!
John Bull, he made at me de scoff, and call’d me Gasconader,
By gar, me find he ne’er will flinch – from any French Invader!
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
And now, what vex me worse than all, John Bull prepare for war, Sir,
For, fraught with vengeance, he send out that valiant dog, Jack Tar, Sir,
By gar, he sweep de Channel clean, and den he mar our sport, Sir,
He either take de ships of France, or block them in de port, Sir,
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
This spoil’d my scheme for sending troops from Gallia’s shore to Dover,
So then, by gar, me send them off, and then they took Hanover;
But, for to ratify the terms, th’ Elector did not choose, Sir,
Because, I’m told, the British King, to sign them did refuse, Sir.
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
O! next I make more gasconade, and then most loudly boast, Sir,
That I would send flat-bottom’d boats, and soon invade de coast, Sir,
‘That all the men in arms I found, by gar, I’d take their lives, Sir,
And put to sword the Britons all, their children, and their wives, Sir!!!’
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
I found my boasting threats are vain, for now, all ranks, by gar, Sir,
From fifteen, up to fifty-five, are all prepar’d for war, Sir,
They swear, ‘no Gallic yoke they’ll bear, or Corsican’s proud sting, Sir,
But, bravely for their Freedom fight, their Country, and their King! Sir.’
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
And then they talk of warlike deeds – of Edward the Black Prince, Sir,
And how their Harries fought of old – true courage to evince, Sir,
In modern times, a Nelson brave! and Abercrombie’s fame, Sir,
O’er Gallia’s fleets and armies too, have spread eternal shame, Sir.
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
By gar, me always thought, till now, I was a mighty Hero!
But then, I’m told, the people say, me cruel was as Nero,
Because three thousand Turks I slew, they say I was to blame, Sir,
As also when at Jaffa I – did poison sick and lame, Sir.
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.
 
 
By gar, I find my ardor fail, and all my courage cool, Sir,
De World confess I am de knave– de English call me fool, Sir;
Hard fate! alas, that I am both! my heart, of grief, is full, Sir,
By gar, me wish I was at peace! with honest Johnny Bull! Sir.
Lack, lack a day, fal lal, &c.