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THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE
Traditional, Arr. N. & N. Blake
On a lone, barren isle, where the wild, roaring billows
Assail the stern rock and the loud tempest raves,
The hero lies still where the dew drooping willows
Like fond, weeping mourners, lean over his grave
The lightning may flash and the loud thunder rattle.
He eats not, he hears not, he's free from all pain.
He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle.
No sound can awake him to glory again.
No sound can awake him to glory again.
Oh shade of the mighty, where now are the legions
That rushed but to conquer, when thou ledst them on?
Alas, they have perished in far hilly regions,
And all, save the fame, of their triumph is gone.
The trumpet may sound and the loud cannon rattle.
They eat not, they hear not, they're free from all pain.
They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle.
No sound can awake them to glory again.
No sound can awake them to glory again.
Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee.
For like thine own eagle, that soared to the Sun,
Thou springest from bondage, and leavest behind thee,
A name which, before thee, no mortal had won.
Tho' nations may combat, and war's thunder rattle,
No more on thy steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain.
Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle.
No sound can awake thee to glory again.
No sound can awake thee to glory again.
See ya
-Bo Parker
REPLIES to this address will probably bounce.)
"And if one more person says to me, they can't stand the "twang," I think
I just might gingerly poke 'em in the eye. This is not like eating okra."
--Linda Ellis
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