The Burning of the Golden Eagles.

The Grande Armee on the move.

Oh what a mere 6 months would make. 

450,000 strong marched to the sound of drums and buglers.

Move east men for the empire, for the glory of our Emperor.

The folly of men and countries to stand in his way. On we marched.

City and towns fell as rain in the summer.

Before long we camp on the Nieman. One last white dove did we send.

Look men, stand in formation. Here comes le Brave des Braves.

Marshal Ney and his III Corps. Golden Eagles and banners riding high.

Pride of France rode by, shining breast plates danced on the the water.

Cannons rolled by. Then a roar rose to the heavens. He comes!! He Comes!!

"Long live the Emperor. Long live the Emperor."

In less than forty days march we will be in Moscow he vowed,

as he rode down the line on his steed Marengo.

Proud to be making history this day, we stood as they moved on.

Pushing the Russians back, till we saw the gates of Moscow.

Peninsular veterans looked to the heavens and a low curse was hear.

Beg pardon War God why frown on the Grande Armee as the rain came down.

Mother Russia had a new ally that day... Mother Nature. Our fate was sealed that gray day.

Winds blowing from the north, snow drifting down. Early snow add to our lives.

Empty Moscow at our feet. Ghosts swirling from around the corners.

Where is the Czar with terms. Dare you make the Emperor wait.

We stood against double mother's... One nature the other Russia.

Rank upon rank thinned not by ball or bayonet, but by the cruel Mother.

Our Grande Armee turned with snow on our cloaks.

Back we moved, the way we had come, for all that lays ahead is blacken soil.

No drums or buglers this day. One foot ahead then the other not a march.

Song of empty stomach to sleep to, each morning frozen humps laid.

Crossing the Nieman, heads hung low. To our right the horror.

As the men passed they threw the Golden Eagles into the fire.

One after another the pyre was fed Golden Eagles.

Tears streamed down Ney's face. His friends, countrymen gone.

The Grande Armee went with 450,000 strong.

We came out with less than 27,000, tired and broken souls.

The bulk of our Grande Armee remained in Mother Russia.

Lost souls on the winter winds, left to haunt us to the core.

"In war there is but one favorable moment, the grand art is to seize it."

Emperor Napoleon said it the best.

 Our Grande Armee was no more.

It was written after the Emperor death, he would walk the halls,

calling out for his lost Golden Eagles.