Morning Post, 13 August 1803, p 3
Bonaparte’s Answer to John Bull’s Card, Inviting him to England, with a Few Lines concerning his Brothers Taffy, Sawney and Paddy.
Tune “Here we go up, up, up”
My dear Johnny Bull, the last mail
Brought over your kind invitation,
And strongly it tempts us to sail
In our boats, to your flourishing nation,
But prudence she whispers, “Beware,
Don’t you see, that his fleets are in motion;
He’ll play you some d—d Ruse de Guerre,
If he catches you out on the ocean”
Our fears they mount up, up, up,
Our bapers they sink down-y down-y,
Our hearts they beat backwards and forwards,
Our beads they turn round-y round-y.
You say that pot-luck shall be mine,
Fe n’chiens pas ces mots, Monsieur Bull;
But think I can guess your design,
When you talk of a good belly-full.
I have promis’d my men, with rich food,
Their courage and faith reward;
I tell them your puddings are good,
Tho’ your dumplings are rather too bard.
O my Johny, my Johnny,
And O my Johnny, my deary,
Let a few of us come over,
To taste your beet and beer-y.
I’ve read, and I’ve heard much of Wales;
Its mines, its meadows, and fountains,
Of black cattle fed in the vales,
And goats skipping wild on the mountains.
Were I but once safe landed there,
What improvements I’d make in the place!
I’d prattle and kiss with the fair,
Give the men the fraternal embrace.
O my Taffy, my Taffy,
Soon I’ll come, if it please ye,
To riot on delicate mutton,
Good ale, and toasted cheese-y.
Caledonia I long to see,
And if the stout fleet in the North
Will let me go by quietly,
Then I’ll sail up the Firth of Forth,
Her sons, I must own, they are dashing,
Yet Johnny, between me and you,
I owe them a grudge for the thrashing
They gave that poor devil Menou.
O my Sawney, my Sawney
Your bagpipes will make us all friskey,
We’ll dance with your lasses so bonny,
Eat haggis, and tipple your whiskey.
Hibernia’s another snug place,
I hope to get there too some day,
Tho’ our ships they get into disgrace,
With Warren, near Donegall Bay;
Tho’ my good friends at Vinegar-Hill,
They fail’d; be assured, Jack of all this,
I’ll give them French Liberty still,
As I have to the Dutch and the Swiss.
O my Paddie, my paddies,
You are all of you honest creatures,
Art I long to be with you at Cork,
To sup upon fish and potatoes.
A fair wind and thirty-six hours, &
Would bring us all over from Brest,
Tell your ships to let alone ours,
And we’ll manage all the rest.
Adieu! My dear boy, ‘till we meet;
Take care of your gold, my honey,
And, when I reach Threadneedle Street,
I’ll help you to count over your money.
But my fears they mount up, up, up,
And my hopes they sink, down-y, down-y
My heart it beats backwards and forwards,
My head it runs round-y, round-y