As floods of us with carts and guns
Bore down upon the ridge
That led, by snowy swathes and slopes,
Unto the Dnieper bridge.
The sun, a dull broad spot of blood,
Smouldered through icy clouds;
The snow, in blinding heavy flakes,
Was weaving soldiers’ shrouds.
Here lay a powder-waggon split,
Its wheels all black and torn,
And there a gun half buried in
The ruts its weight had worn.
Drums splashed with blood and broken swords
Were scattered everywhere;
Our shattered muskets, shakos pierced,
Lay partly buried there.
Guns foundered, chests of cartridge burst,
Lay by the dead defaced;
By hasty graves of hillocked snow,
You could our path have traced.
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Still one battalion firm was left
(Made up of Davoust’s men)
“The Vieille Roche" we called the band,
In admiration then.
The “Father of the Regiment,”
De Maubourg, led us on,
With the old Roman’s iron will,
Though hope had almost gone.
Two sons he had, who guarded him
From every Cossack spear;
One was a grenadier, whose heart
Had never known a fear;
The other boy a lusty drum
Beat by his father’s side;
I often saw the father smile
To see the stripling’s pride.
There came a rush of ponderous guns,
Grinding the red churned snow,
Making their way o’er dying men
Unto the bridge below.
Ney gathered close his prickly squares
To keep the Russians back,
For fast those yelling Cossacks came
Upon our bleeding track.
Maubourg was there erect and firm;
I saw him through the fire;
He stooped to kiss a dying friend,
Then seemed to rise the higher.
