Napoleon's Farewell to Paris


H. J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., New York.

Napoleon’s Farewell to Paris

Farewell! ye splendid citadel, metroplis, called Paris,
Where Phoebus every morning shouts forth refulgent beams;
Where Flora’s bright Aurora, advancing from the horizon,
With radiant light adorning the pure, shining streams;
At eve, when Centaur does retire, while the ocean glides like fire,
And the Universe admires our merchandise and store,
Commanding Flora’s fragrance the fertile field to decorate.
To illuminate that royal Corsican again on the French shore.

My name’s Napoleon Buonaparte, the conqueror of nations;
I’ve banished German legions, and drove Kings from their thrones;
I’ve trampled Dukes and Earls, and splendid Congregations,
Tho’ they’ve now transported me to St. Helena’s shore;
Like Hannibal, I’ve crossed the Alps, the burning sands and rocky cliffs;
O’er Russian hills, thro’ frost and snow, I still the laurel wore;
I’m on a desert island where rats the devil would affright,
Yet I hope to shine, in armor bright, through Europe once more.

Some say the first of my downfall was parting from my consort,
To wed the German’s daughter, who wounded my heart sore;
But the female train I ne’er will blame—for she never did me defame—
They saw my sword in battle flame, and did me adore;
Now, I severely felt the rod for meddling with the house of God;
Coin, and golden images in thousands away I tore;
I stole Malta’s golden gates; I did the works of God disgrace—
But if he’ll give me time and place, to Him back I will restore.

My golden eagles were pulled down by Wellington’s allied army—
My troops, all in disorder, could no longer stand the field;
I was sold that afternoon, on the eighteenth day of June;
My reinforcements proved traitors, which caused me to yield;
I am an allied oak; with fire and sword I made them smoke;
I have conquered Dutch and Danes, and surprised the Grand Signor;
I have defeated Austrians and Russians, both Portuguese and Prussians,
Like Joshua, Alexander, or Caesar of yore.

And to the south of Africa, and the Atlantic ocean,
To view the wild emotions and flowings of the tide;
Banished from the royal crown of imperial promotion—
From the French throne of glory to see those billows glide;
Three days I stood the pain liberty’s cause to maintain,
Thousands I left slain and covered in their gore;
I never fled without revenge, nor to the allied army cringed,
But now my sword is sheathed—and Paris no more.

Item Information help

blog comments powered by Disqus