Ye children of the veterans
Who fought for faithless Spain,
And for ungrateful Portugal
Pour'd out their blood like rain —

Come near me, and hear me,
For I would tell you well
How gallantly your fathers fought,
How gloriously they fell!

I sing of Roleia's bloody strife,
The first of many frays,
When iron Wellesley led us on,
Invincible always;
Roleia, gay and ever green,
Festooned with vines and flowers,
Roleia, scorch'd and blood-bedewed —
And half that blood was our's!

The seventeenth of August
It shone out bright and clear,
And still we press'd the Frenchman's flank,
And hung upon his rear:
From Brilos and Obidos
Had we driven the bold Laborde,
And now among the mountain rocks
We sought him with the sword!

All golden is the plain with wheat,
All purple are the hills,
With luscious vineyards ripe and sweet,
And laced with crystal rills;
Yet must the rills run down with gore,
The corn be trampled red,
Before Roleia's threshing-floor
Is glutted with her dead!

O! cheerily the bugles spoke,
And all our hearts beat high,
When over Monte Junto broke
The sun upon the sky;
Right early from Obidos
We gladly sallied then,
A goodly host, in columns three,
Of fourteen thousand men.

Brave Ferguson led on the left,
And Trant the flanking right,
With iron Arthur in the midst,
The focus of the fight;
And fast by Wellesley's gallant side
The Craufurd rode amain,
And Hill, the British soldier's pride,
And Nightingale and Fane.

Crouching like a tiger
In his high and rocky lair,
The Frenchman howl'd, and show'd his teeth,
And — wish'd he wasn't there;
For Craufurd, Hill, and Nightingale
Flew at him as he lay,
And up our gallant fellows sprang,
As bloodhounds on the prey!

And, look! we hunt the bold Laborde
To Zambugeira's height;
While Trant, with Fane and Ferguson,
Outflank him, left and right;
And then with cheers we charge the front,
With cheers the foe reply!
No child's play was that battle brunt;
We swore to win or die!

Rattled loud the muskets' roar;
We struggled man to man:
The rugged rocks were washed in gore,
With gore the gullies ran!
Fiercely through those mountain-paths
Our bloody way we force —
And find in strength upon the heights
The Frenchman, foot and horse!

Ah, then, my Ninth, and Twenty-ninth,
Your courage was too hot,
For down on your disordered ranks
Secure they pour the shot;
But all their horse, and foot, and guns,
Could never make you fly:
The losing Frenchman fights and runs,
But Britons fight — and die!

Up to the rescue, Ferguson!
And keep the hard-fought hill;
Their chiefs are picked off, one by one,
And, lo! they rally still;
They rally, and rush stoutly on!
The bold Laborde gives way!
The day is lost! — The day is won!
And our's is the day!

Then well retreating, sage and slow,
Alternately in mass
With charging horse, the wily foe
Gains Runa's rocky pass;
And left us thus Roleia's field,
With other fields in store —
Vimiera, Torres Vedras —
And half a hundred more!