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By the swelling of the ocean,
One morning in the month of June.
By those feathered warbling songsters
Oh their charming notes did sweetly tune.
It was there I spied a woman,
Seeming overcome by grief and woe.
Oh conversing with young Bonaparte,
Concerning the bonnie bunch of roses-o.
Then up spoke young Napoleon,
As he took his mother by the hand.
Saying, "Mother, dear, have patience,
Till I am able for to take command.
I will raise a terrible army,
And through tremendous dangers go.
And in spite of all the Universe,
Shall conquer the bonnie bunch of roses-o."
Oh speak you not so venturesome,
For England is the heart of oak.
Of England, Ireland and Scotland,
I fear their unity shall ne're be broke.
Oh think you on your father,
In the island where he now lies low.
Oh he's not yet interred in France,
Beware the bonnie bunch of roses-o.
Oh your father raised great armies.
And likewise kings did join the throng.
Oh he was so well provided for.
Oh enough to sweep the world along.
But when he came to Moscow,
He as overcome by drifting snow.
And though Moscow was a-blazing,
He lost the bonnie bunch of roses-o.
Oh Mother, adieu, forever,
I am lying on my dying bed.
Oh if I'd of lived, I'd of been brave,
But now I droop my youthful head.
And when, our bones, they do moulder,
And weeping willows over us do grow,
Oh its deeds to poor Napoleon,
shall stain the bonnie bunch of roses-o.