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Farewell ye splendid citadel, metropolis called Paris,
Where Phoebus every morning shot four refulgent beams;
Where Flora's bright aurora advancing from the horizon,
His radiant light adorning the clear and shining streams.
That eve when censure does retire while the ocean glows like fire,
And the universe admires our merchandise and store;
Commending Flora's fragrance, the fertile fields to decorate,
To illuminate that royal Corsican again on the French shore.
My name is Napoleon Bonaparte the conqueror of nations,
I have banished German legions and drove kings from their thrones;
I have trampled dukes and earls, and splendid congregations,
Though they have now transported me to St. Helena's shore.
I am an allied oak, with fire and sword I've made them smoke.
I have conquered Dutch and Danes, and surprised the Grand Signor,
I have defeated Austrians and Russians, both Portuguese and Prussians,
Like Joshua at Alexandria or Caesar of yore.
Some say the first of my downfall was parting from my consort,
To wed a German's daughter that wounded my heart sore;
This female train I ne'er would blame, for never did she me defame,
She saw my sword in battle and did me adore.
Now I severely felt the rod for meddling with the House of God,
Coin and gold and images in thousands away I tore;
I stole Malta's golden gates, I did the works of God disgrace,
For if you'll give me time and peace back to them I'll restore.
My golden eagles were pulled down by Wellington's allied army;
My troops all in disorder could no longer stand the field;
I was told that afternoon upon the eighteenth of June,
My reinforcements proved traitors which caused me to yield,
Now I'm in on a desert island where rats the devil would afright,
But I'm in hopes to shine in armor bright through Europe once more.
Now to the south of Africa and the Atlantic ocean,
To view the wild emotions and flowings of the tide;
Banished from the royal crown of imperial promotion,
From the French throne of glory to see these billows glide;
Three days I stood the pain, liberty's cause to maintain,
Thousands I left slain and covered in their gore;
I never fled without revenge, nor to the allied armies cringed,
Now my sword is sheathed and Paris is no more.
Collected in 1952 from Phillip Foley of Tilting, NL, by Kenneth Peacock and published in Songs Of The Newfoundland Outports, Volume 3, pp.1009-1011, by the National Museum of Canada (1965) Crown Copyrights Reserved. A variant was also published in Ballads And Sea Songs Of Newfoundland, #133, by Elisabeth Bristol Greenleaf and Grace Yarrow Mansfield (Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1933; Folklore Associates, Hatboro, Pennsylvania, 1968.)
Kenneth Peacock noted that he doubted if Napoleon's Farewell has been collected from oral tradition before in such a high state of preservation. Having nearly beat the English, Napoleon has almost become an Irish folk hero.
