A poem by William F. Kirk

At Vaterloo dar ban a scrap
Gude many year ago.
Napolyun, he ban brave old chap
And boss of whole French show.
And Maester Vellington, he say,
"Ay skol mak gude defence,
And make dis Bonypart and Ney
To look lak saxty cents."

Dey start to fight on Sunday morn;
And preacher say to Nap:
"Now, yust so sure sum yu ban born,
Yu're going to fall in trap.
Ef yu got any vork to du,
Yust chuse some oder day."
But Nap say, "To the voods vith yu!
Mak dis bar bugle play!"

Ven Maester Vellington vake op,
He see a gude big hill,
Vith plenty soldier men on top, -
Ay bet he got gude chill.
"Yerusalem!" he tal his men,
"Dese French ban purty t'ick.
Ay tenk by qvarter after ten
Dey skol feel gude and sick."

Den Yen'ral Blucher com along,
And loading op his gun;
And dis mak tengs look purty strong
For Maester Vellington.
Two heads ban more sum von, yu see;
And Vellington, he say,
"Yust keep yure Yerman gang vith me,
And ve skol vinning day."

Den all his English soldiers scrap
Vith guns so big sum trees;
And Yermans fight vith lager tap
And planty Brickstein cheese.
And so, betveen the two, dey chase
Dese Frenchmen to tall pines;
And old Napolyun hide his face,
And yumping back to mines.

Napolyun, he feels purty bum;
And after vile he say,
"Ef Maester Grouchy only com,
Ve could have von to-day."
But Grouchy ban asleep at svitch,
So vat could Frenchman du?
Dis har ban all the history vich
Ay know 'bout Vaterloo.

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