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James Henry Leigh Hunt - Walcheren Expedition
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Ye brave, enduring Englishmen,
    Who dash through fire and flood, 
And spend with equal thoughtlessness
    Your money and your blood,
I sing of that black season,
    Which all true hearts deplore,
        When ye lay,
        Night and day, 
Upon Walcheren`s swampy shore.


`Twas in the summer`s sunshine
    Your mighty host set sail,
With valour in each longing heart
    And vigour in the gale;
The Frenchman dropp`d his laughter,
    The Fleming`s thoughts grew sore, 
        As ye came 
        In your fame
To the dark and swampy shore.


But foul delays encompass`d ye
    More dang`rous than the foe,
As Antwerp`s town and its guarded fleet
    Too well for Britons know;
One spot alone ye conquer`d
    With hosts unknown of yore; 
        And your might 
        Day and night,
Lay still on the swampy shore.


In vain your dauntless mariners
    Mourn`d ev`ry moment lost,
In vain your soldiers threw their eyes
    In flame to the hostile coast;
The fire of gallant aspects
    Was doom`d to be no more, 
        And your fame 
        Sunk with shame
In the dark and the swampy shore.

Ye died not in the triumphing
    Of the battle-shaken flood,
Ye died not on the charging field
    In the mingle of brave blood;
But `twas in wasting fevers
    Full three months and more, 
        Britons born, 
        Pierc`d with scorn,
Lay at rot on the swampy shore.


No ship came o`er to bring relief,
    No orders came to save;
But DEATH stood there and never stirr`d,
    Still counting for the grave.
They lay down, and they linger`d,
    And died with feelings sore, 
        And the waves 
        Pierc`d their graves
Thro` the dark and the swampy shore.


Oh England! Oh my Countrymen!
    Ye ne`er shall thrive again,
Till freed from Councils obstinate
    Of mercenary men.
So toll for the six thousand
    Whose miseries are o`er, 
        Where the deep, 
        To their sleep,
Bemoans on the swampy shore.
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