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We've paid in hell since Moscow burned,
As Cossacks tear us piece by piece;
Our dead are strewn a hundred leagues,
Though death would be a sweet release.
And our grande armie is dressed in rags,
A frozen starving beggar band;
Like rats we steal each other's scraps,
Fall to fighting hand-to-hand.
Save my soul from evil, Lord,
And heal this soldier's heart;
I'll trust in thee to keep me, Lord,
I'm done with Bonaparte.
What dreams he made for us to dream,
Spanish skies, Egyptian sands;
The world was ours, we marched upon
Our little Corporal's command.
And I lost an eye at Austerlitz,
The sabre slash yet gives me pain;
My one true love awaits me still,
The flower of the Aquitaine.
Save my soul from evil, Lord,
And heal this soldier's heart;
I'll trust in thee to keep me, Lord,
I'm done with Bonaparte.
I pray for her who prays for me,
A safe return to my belle France;
We prayed these wars would end all wars,
In war we know is no romance.
And I pray our child will never see,
A little Corporal again
Point toward a foreign shore,
Captivate the hearts of men.
Save my soul from evil, Lord,
And heal this soldier's heart;
I'll trust in thee to keep me, Lord,
I'm done with Bonaparte.
