The Polly privateer (1816)/Bonaparte's Escape from the Elba

BONAPARTE's

ESCAPE FROM ELBA.

Tune—Woo'd an' Married, an a'.

NOW Boney to France has got back,
When they thought he was fairly awa',
In haſte he begins now to crack,
And he ſhakes his pike ſtaff at then a';
They thought that he fairly was grippet,
Nae mair to be faſh'd wi' his din,
Yet back to the chair he has ſlippet,
And play'd them the trick and came in.

His auld tricks he thinks now to try them,
And ſeems to be terrible bauld,
He thinks wi' his wiles to defy them,
Becauſe he has broken the fauld;
His matters he ſays he will right them,
And a' their great plans row about,
He draws out his gully to fright them;
Yet ſhortly they may run him out.

Wi' brags and wi' boaſts he is cracking,
And pelting awa', wil his ſtick
A mighty great duſt he is making,
But yet they may play him a trick
Tho' he did get back for a wonder,
In hopes to take back his auld gear,
If they come on him like thunder,
They may ding him yet aff his chair.

When firſt he came back with a hurry,
And nothing but joy ſeen and mirth,
His new friends they long'd for a worry,
His auld friends they cry'd for a birth;
Says he, Now I've ventur'd to ſee you,
In hopes ye will fight in my cauſe,
And frae Louis' grips I will free you,
And keep you ſecure in my claws.

Out-bye to their Elba they ſent me,
But there I had ower little bounds,
That ſtation cou'd never content me,
Like haſhing and cracking of Crowns.
Now a' my true Generals who join'd me,
And left Louis' ſervice for a',
Ye'll now do your beſt for to mind me,
For fear of another new fa'.

Yet baith auld and young they would wiſh me
To take a while yet o' the Crown,
Beſides that a thing that wou'd puſh me,
To leave a good birth for my lown;—
That made me to come owre the water,
To raiſe up another new ſpree,
Gae now get your guns in a clatter,
Your Emperor I ſtill wiſh to be.

But O how it angers me fairly,
That they winna gi'e me my will,
I think I cou'd conquer them fairly,
If it werna for auld Jonny Bull.
His ſiller and men did oppreſs me,
The time I was ſorting at Kings,
And now he ſeems yet to diſtreſs me,
And draws out his purſe by the ſtrings.

Wi' peace I thought ſurely to blink him,
Till I cou'd be better prepar'd,
And then I intended to clink him,
When he wou'd be aff o' his guard:
But a' my deep fetches are humbled,
That I a lang time had made,
And Blucher and Wellington fright me,
And make me to ſcratch at my head.

I dread that John Bull he will faſh us,
And Saunders he winna be ſlack,
The Coſſacks that ſadly did thraſh us,
I fear that they'll be at their back.
I ken they a' threaten to ſkelp me,
As ſure as my fam'd name is Nap,
But try what ye can for to help me,
For now they are a' on my tap.

FINIS.