Buonaparte is afar,
From his war and his fighting;
He has gone to a place
He can never delight in;
He may list to the winds
On the great Mount Diana,
While alone he remains
On the Isle of Saint Helena.

O the rude rushing waves
Round the shores are awashing.
And the great billows heaves
On the wild rocks are dashing;
He may look to the moon
On the great Mount Diana,
With his eyes on the waves
That roll around Saint Helena.

Come all you who have wealth
Pray beware of ambition
For a small twist of fate,
It may change your condition.
And be steadfast in time,
For what’s to come you know not,
And your race it could end
On the Isle of Saint Helena.

Recordings 1, 2, 3