The World’s Wit and Humor: An Encyclopedia in 15 Volumes. 1906.
Robert Southey (1774–1843)The March to Moscow
T
On a summer excursion to Moscow:
The fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!
Must go with him to Moscow:
There were marshals by the dozen,
And dukes by the score;
Princes a few, and kings one or two.
While the fields are so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
What a pleasant excursion to Moscow!
Heigh-ho for Moscow!
Dombrowsky and Poniatowsky,
Marshal Ney, lack-a-day!
General Rapp, and the Emperor Nap;
Nothing would do,
While the fields were so green, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Nothing would do
For the whole of this crew,
But they must be marching to Moscow.
That he frightened Mr. Roscoe.
“John Bull,” he cries, “if you’ll be wise,
Ask the Emperor Nap if he will please
To grant you peace, upon your knees,
Because he is going to Moscow!
He’ll make all the Poles come out of their holes,
And beat the Russians, and eat the Prussians;
For the fields are green, and the sky is blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And he’ll certainly march to Moscow!”
At the thought of the march to Moscow:
“The Russians,” he said, “they were undone,
And the great Fee-Faw-Fum
Would presently come,
With a hop, step, and jump, unto London;
For, as for his conquering Russia,
However some persons might scoff it,
Do it he could, and do it he would,
And from doing it nothing would come but good,
And nothing could call him off it.”
Mr. Jeffrey said so, who must certainly know;
For he was the Edinburgh Prophet.
They all of them knew Mr. Jeffrey’s “Review,”
Which with Holy Writ ought to be reckoned:
It was, through thick and thin, to its party true;
Its back was buff, and its sides were blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
It served them for Law, and for Gospel too.
Upon the road to Moscow.
Nap had to fight his way all through;
They could fight, though they could not parlez-vous.
But the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
And so he got to Moscow.
For they set fire to Moscow.
To get there had cost him much ado;
And then no better course he knew,
While the fields were green, and the sky was blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
But to march back again from Moscow.
All on the road from Moscow.
There was Tormazow and Jemalow,
And all the others that end in “ow”;
Milarodovitch and Jaladovitch
And Karatschkowitch,
And all the others that end in “itch”;
Schamscheff, Souchosaneff,
And Schepaleff,
And all the others that end in “eff”;
Wasiltschikoff, Kostomaroff,
And Tchoglokoff,
And all the others that end in “off”;
Rajeffsky and Novereffsky
And Rieffsky,
And all the others that end in “effsky”;
Oscharoffsky and Rostoffsky,
And all the others that end in “offsky.”
And Platoff he played them off,
And Shouvaloff he shovelled them off,
And Markoff he marked them off,
And Krosnoff he crossed them off,
And Tuchkoff he touched them off,
And Boroskoff he bored them off,
And Kutousoff he cut them off,
And Parenzoff he pared them off,
And Woronzoff he worried them off,
And Doctoroff he doctored them off,
And Rodionoff he flogged them off.
And last of all an admiral came,
A terrible man with a terrible name—
A name which you all know by sight very well;
But which no one can speak, and no one can spell.
They stuck close to Nap with all their might;
They were on the left and on the right,
Behind and before, and by day and by night;
He would rather parlez-vous than fight:
But he looked white, and he looked blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
When parlez-vous no more would do,
For they remembered Moscow.
All on the road from Moscow.
The wind and the weather he found, in that hour,
Cared nothing for him, nor for all his power;
For him who, while Europe crouched under his rod,
Put his trust in his Fortune, and not in his God.
Worse and worse every day the elements grew,
The fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Sacrebleu! Ventrebleu!
What a horrible journey from Moscow!
Upon the road from Moscow?
Why, I ween he thought it small delight
To fight all day, and to freeze all night;
And he was besides in a very great fright,
For a whole skin he liked to be in;
And so, not knowing what else to do,
When the fields were so white, and the sky so blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
He stole away—I tell you true—
Upon the road from Moscow.
“’Tis myself,” quoth he, “I must mind most;
So the Devil may take the hindmost.”
Too hot had he been at Moscow;
But colder and hotter he may be,
For the grave is colder than Muscovy;
And a place there is to be kept in view,
Where the fire is red, and the brimstone blue,
Morbleu! Parbleu!
Which he must go to,
If the Pope say true,
If he does not in time look about him;
Where his namesake almost
He may have for his Host;
He has reckoned too long without him.
If that Host get him in Purgatory,
He won’t leave him there alone with his glory;
But there he must stay for a very long day,
For from thence there is no stealing away,
As there was on the road from Moscow.