One hundred and fifty-six guns, along a 3-mile line,

Pounding artillery up the ridge towards the British,

Bonaparte, resplendent in white and looking fine,

Personally directing the attack, ready to the war finish,

The French thrust a spear into the British fortifications,

Pushing forward, trying to make them shatter,

Trying to finish them before came the other nations,

It looked like Napoleon would win, a state of matter,

Then came the Prussians, and though foiled struck a blow,

Then Wellington committed his reserves then,

And then they made the French blood flow,

So then won the British men,

The battle of Waterloo