He could not ride a horse at Waterloo. His soul was spent, that's all. But who was rested? The dirty Bourbons skulking back to Paris, Now that our giant democrat was sick. Oh, yes, the dirty Bourbons skulked to Paris Helped by the Duke and Blücher, damn their souls. What is a man to do whose work is done And does not feel so well, has cancer, say? You know he could have reached America After his fall at Waterloo. Good God! If only he had done it! For they say New Orleans is a city good to live in. And he had ceded to America Louisiana, which in time would curb The English lion. But he didn't go there. His mind was weakened else he had foreseen The lion he had tangled, wounded, scourged Would claw him if it got him, play with him Before it killed him. Who was England then?-- An old, mad, blind, despised and dying king Who lost a continent for the lust that slew The Emperor--the world will say at last It was no other. Who was England then? A regent bad as husband, father, son, Monarch and friend. But who was England then? Great Castlereagh who cut his throat, but who Had cut his country's long before. The duke-- Since Waterloo, and since the Emperor slept-- The English stoned the duke, he bars his windows With iron 'gainst the mobs who break to fury, To see the Duke waylay democracy. The world's great conqueror's conqueror!--Eh bien! Grips England after Waterloo, but when The people see the duke for what he is: A blocker of reform, a Tory sentry, A spotless knight of ancient privilege, They up and stone him, by the very deed Stone him for wronging the democracy The Emperor erected with the sword. The world's great conqueror's conqueror--Oh, I sicken! Odes are like head-stones, standing while the graves Are guarded and kept up, but falling down To ruin and erasure when the graves Are left to sink. Hey! there you English poets, Picking from daily libels, slanders, junk Of metal for your tablets 'gainst the Emperor, Melt up true metal at your peril, poets, Sweet moralists, monopolists of God. But who was England? Byron driven out, And courts of chancery vile but sacrosanct, Despoiling Shelley of his children; Southey, The turn-coat panegyrist of King George, An old, mad, blind, despised, dead king at last; A realm of rotten boroughs massed to stop The progress of democracy and chanting To God Almighty hymns for Waterloo, Which did not stop democracy, as they hoped. For England of to-day is freer--why? The revolution and the Emperor! They quench the revolution, send Napoleon To St. Helena--but the ashes soar Grown finer, grown invisible at last. And all the time a wind is blowing ashes, And sifting them upon the spotless linen