'Twas a Marechal of France, and he fain would honour gain,
And he long'd to take a passing glance at Portugal from Spain,
With his flying guns this gallant gay,
And boasted corps d'armée,
O he fear'd not our dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat down,
Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers sack'd the town,
When 'twas peste! Morbleu! Mon General,
Hear th'English bugle call!
And behold the light dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

Three hundred British lads they made three thousand reel,
Their hearts were made of English Oak, their swords of Sheffield steel,
Their horses were in Yorkshire bred,
And Beresford them led;
So huzza for brave dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.

There here's a health to Wellington, to Beresford, to Long,
And a single word of Bonaparte before I close my song:
The eagles that to fight he brings
Should serve his men with wings,
When they meet the brave dragoons with their long swords boldly riding.
Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la,
And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la.