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Near by the swelling ocean, one morning in the month of June,
While feather'd warbling songsters their charming notes did sweetly tune,
I overheard a lady lamenting in sad grief and woe,
And talking with young Bonaparte concerning the bonny Bunch of Roses O.

Thus spake the young Napoleon, and grasped his mother by the hand:
“Oh, mother dear have patience, till I am able to command;
I'll raise a numerous army, and through tremendous dangers go,
And in spite of all the universe, I'll gain the bonny Bunch of Roses O.”

“Oh, son, speak not so venturesome for England is the heart of oak;
Of England, Scotland, and Ireland, the unity can ne'er be broke.
And think you on your father, in the Island where he now lies low,
He is not yet interred in France; so beware of the bonny Bunch of Roses O.

“Your father raised great armies, and likewise kings did join the throng;
He was so well provided, enough to sweep the world along.
But when he went to Moscow, he was o'erpowered by drifting snow;
And though Moscow was blazing he lost the bonny Bunch of Roses O.”

“Oh, mother, adieu for ever, I am now on my dying bed,
If I had lived I'd have been brave, but now I droop my youthful head.
And when our bones do moulder, and weeping-willows o'er us grow,
Its deeds to bold Napoleon will stain the bonny Bunch of Roses O.”

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