“Nothing, except a battle lost, can be half so melancholy as a battle won.”—Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington

***

Old tunes, joyful tunes, weaving through the night;

The rosy glow of faces beneath the candlelight;

North winds, cruel winds, howling at the door;

The whirl of Yuletide dances across the wooden floor.

~

And sitting by the fireside, amidst the revelry,

Strong John takes poor weak Mary upon his bended knee.

He’s young, bold, and handsome, a farmer’s strapping son;

She’s young, frail, and sickly, with both her parents gone.

~

His blue eyes flash like starlight; his red hair shimmers gold.

Her gray eyes mirror storm clouds; her skin is pale and cold.

But he finds her lips like honey, her hair like rich brown earth,

And he whispers that he loves her beside the blazing hearth.

~

Then “crash!” the door is broken in, and cheer is turned to gloom,

For soldiers clad in scarlet coats are standing in the room.

They’re here to press these bold young men to fight Bold Bonaparte,

And Mary cries, “Don’t take him, for it will break my heart!”

~

“If we put off our duty now to spare each lass’s heart,

Then none would cross the raging sea to battle Bonaparte.”

They’ve taken hold of Strong John’s arms and dragged him to the door,

Leaving his poor young lover a-sobbing on the floor.

***

Brave tunes, haunting tunes, piping ‘cross the field;

The stern and smoke-stained faces of men who will not yield.

Strong John is on the frontlines with other farmers’ sons;

He hears the war drums beating and the clatter of the guns.

~

Their leader is a cold man, or so they all assume;

He has a look of iron that penetrates the gloom.

The air is damp and heavy; his eyes are quick and keen;

He sees Old Boney’s horsemen advancing on the scene.

~

The order then is passed around to form a British Square;

John thinks of summer sunsets and Mary’s dark-brown hair.

He thinks of ale and apples, of Paradise and God—

Is there a place in Heaven for those who till the sod?

~

The officers are shouting; the noise drowns out their words;

Old Boney’s men are coming; they draw their shining swords.

The piper in the center is playing “Auld Lang Syne”;

The redcoats prime their muskets, all waiting for a sign.

~

They see a sword flash downward; they fire in accord;

The screams of men and horses across the field are heard.

They keep the bullets flying, but they are out of time;

A French sword flashes downward; John’s blood runs red as wine.

~

Faint breath, gasping breath, Mary’s breath is gone,

Her dying breath spent asking about the farmer’s son.

Like Strong John’s scarlet tunic, red blood has stained her dress;

She coughed it up while clutching his letter to her breast.

~

Her face is gaunt and ghostly, her figure worn and thin;

Her heart that beat with sorrow has shattered deep within.

Her lips are kissed by silence; her eyes are sightless now,

And tiny crystal droplets lie on her furrowed brow.

~

This body would have borne him a daughter or a son

If he’d returned to share her bed, and they’d been joined as one.

She sees the shadows parting upon a gory field

Where gallant men in British Squares will die before they’ll yield.

~

She sees the steel slice through him, cutting flesh and bone;

She sees the blood run freely; she hears his final moan.

She flies across the distance; upon the field she stands.

She softly kisses his white lips and squeezes his limp hand.

~

His blue eyes flicker briefly; he sees her spirit there;

He makes a final movement and strokes her dark-brown hair.

Her countenance is brightness, though all else fades away;

They wake to find a Shining World, and greet a Glorious Day.

***

The battle ends in victory; they find that John is dead,

With lifeless Mary at his side, as in a marriage bed.

None know where she came from, but together they are laid,

And the Iron Duke sheds iron tears for the price that has been paid.