The Prologue

 

There’s a terminal station in old London Town

That carries a name of national renown

A name of a place where came tumbling down

A Frenchman’s imperial dreams

In Belgium in 1815.

 

The Battle

 

There stood mud ‘n’ puddles where once there’d stood flowers

It ‘ad bucketed stair rods for ‘ours ‘n’ ‘ours

It tested us patience; it tested us powers

To trudge to the port-a-loo

At the Battle of Waterloo.

 

We’d dug in behind a ‘ill in a trench

We were freezing ‘n’ moaning, un’appy ‘n’ drenched;

Our ‘istorical enemy as always – the French!

It wa’ just like at Agincourt

It ended a similar score!

 

Their battlefield leader sat on ‘is pony

Surrounded by gen’rals ‘n’ similar cronies

I’m talking none other than Emperor Boney

Wearin’ ‘is bicorn bonnet

‘N’ feelin’ about for ‘is wallet.

Now Arthur Wellesley commanded our men

He’d led us to victory again ‘n’ again

The rain wa’ no bother; ‘e joked now ‘n’ then,

“Me?  I don’t give two hoots.

I’m wearing mi Wellington boots.”

 

Emperor Boney wa’ known to be good

‘E’d won many battles ‘n’ spilt English blood

But ‘e showed ‘issen an owd stick-in-the-mud

A dour dullard, ‘n’ dozey,

Outmanoeuvred by Nosey.

 

To break the deadlock ‘e played ‘is last card

Boney threw in ‘is Imperial Guard

Wellingtonsaid wi’ complete disregard

“Fetch me the pudding trolley.

And gi’e ‘em another volley”.

 

The Imperial Guard recognised it was beat

For the first time ever they beat their retreat

They’d seen what Englishmen eat for a sweet

Said Pierre “Vous prenez your pick!

Mais moi?  Pas Spotted Dick!”

 

So Wellington took all the great accolades

(Some Germans fought with us that day, I’m afraid)

But the mud was decisive like thick marmalade

Just like at Glastonbury too

At the Battle of Waterloo.