Lyrics
Malbrook the Prince of Commanders
Is gone to war in Flanders,
His fame's like Alexander's,
But when will he come home?
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he'll come at Easter,
Egad! he'd better make haste or
We fear he won't come home.
Mironton etc.
For Trinity Feast is over,
And brought no news from Dover,
And Easter's pass'd moreover,
And Malbrook still delays.
Milady in her tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tow'r, she spies returnin'
A page clad in deep mournin',
With fainting steps and slow.
"O page, prithee come faster!
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there's some disaster,
Your looks are full of woe."
"The news I bring fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
"Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear.
"But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page, quite flurried,
"Malbrook is dead and buried!"
And here he shed a tear.
"He's dead! He's dead as a herring!
For I beheld his berring,
And officers transferring
His corpse right off the field.
"One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it with labour,
Much envying his next neighbour,
Who only bore a shield.
"The third was helmet bearer -
That helmet which in its wearer
Fill'd all who saw it with terror,
And cover'd a hero's brains.
"Now, having got so far, I
Find that - by the Lord Harry!-
The fourth's left nothing to carry.-
So there the thing remains."
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.
"One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it with labour,
Much envying his next neighbour,
Who only bore a shield.
"The third was helmet bearer -
That helmet which in its wearer
Fill'd all who saw it with terror,
And cover'd a hero's brains.
"Now, having got so far, I
Find that - by the Lord Harry!-
The fourth's left nothing to carry.-
So there the thing remains."
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.
