A moment pause, ye British fair
While pleasure's phantom ye pursue,
And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo?
Awful was the victory,
Chastened should the triumph be;
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son.

Veiled in clouds the morning rose,
Nature seemed to mourn the day,
Which consigned before its close
Thousands to their kindred clay;
How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly view,
E're evening closed on Waterloo.

See the Highland Warrior rushing
Firm in danger on the foe,
Till the life blood warmly gushing
Lays the plaided hero low.
His native, pipe's accustomed sound,
Mid war's infernal concert drowned,
Cannot soothe his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Waterloo.

Charging on, the Cuirassier,
See the foaming charger flying
Trampling in his wild career,
On all alike the dead and dying,
See the bullet through his side,
Answered by the spouting tide,
Helmet, horse and rider too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these, the dance inspire;
Or wake th' enlivening notes of mirth,
Oh shivered be the recreant lyre,
That gave the base idea birth;
Other sounds I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz the warriors knew,
When they closed on Waterloo.