Song Of The Polish Army On Its Retreat From Warsaw. Poem by Samuel Bamford

We meet at the home of our fathers no more,
But leave it all red with the Muscovites' gore!
They came like the hunger-press'd wolf to his prey,
Who cannot, who will not, be turned away.
They came like the waves of the deluging main,
Their living surmounting their masses of slain;
And onward, and onward, they bore to the strife,
To the gushing of blood, to the gasping of life;
Till ramparts were pil'd of the thousands we slew,
And blood cometh o'er us in rain and in dew,
And corses are feeding the fowls of the air,
At the banquet of death, on the field of despair!
Oh, home of our fathers! the noble and brave
Can never lie down in the lair of the slave;
And thou art defiled by a barbarous horde
Who know not a will save the will of their lord;
Who rise at his bidding the lands to oppress,
Who come at his calling the bless'd to unbless;
Who, howling and wild from their deserts afar,
Bring famine and pestilence unto the war—
Gaunt famine subduing the soul and the breath,
Wan pestilence bending our heroes to death!
Who dar'd and endur'd, without murmur or sigh,
Though nations stood silent and motionless by!

Lost home of our fathers! we bid thee adieu—
To freedom and glory our hearts being true;
Nor yet we abandon the land we adore—
A battle is lost, but the war is not o'er.
When myriads surround and approach to devour,
Our combat we hurl from the fortress and tower;
And there from a thousand loud cannons we cry,
'Come die at the feet of the free, come and die!
Come on with your phalanx, wild horseman and spear,
The sons of Sarmatia are rallying here;
Your parley we scorn, and your wrath we defy,
Come die with the free and the brave, come and die!'