Near by the swelling ocean
One morning in the month of June
While feather'd warbling songsters
Their charming notes did sweetly tune
I overheard a lady
Lamenting in sad grief and woe
And talking with young Bonaparte
Concerning the bonny Bunch of Roses, O
Thus spake the young Napoleon
And grasp'd his mother by the hand
"Oh, mother dear have patience
Till I am able to command
I'll raise a numerous army
And through tremendous dangers go
And in spite of all the universe
I'll gain the bonny Bunch of Roses, O"
Oh, son, speak not so venturesome
For England is the heart of oak
Of England, Scotland, and Ireland
The unity can ne'er be broke
And think you on your father

In the Island where he now lies low
He is not yet interred in France
So beware of the bonny Bunch of Roses, O
Your father raised great armies
And likewise kings did join the throng
He was so well provided
Enough to sweep the world along
But when he went to Moscow
He was o'erpower'd by drifting snow
And though Moscow was blazing
He lost the bonny Bunch of Roses, O
"Oh, mother, adieu for ever
I am now on my dying bed
If I had liv'd I'd have been brave
But now I droop my youthful head
And when our bones do moulder
And weeping-willows o'er us grow
Its deeds to bold Napoleon
Will stain the bonny Bunch of Roses, O"