Farewell sad field, whose blighted face Wears desolation's with'ring trace; Long shall thy memory retain Thy shattered huts, thy trampled grain; With ev'ry mark of martial wrong That scathes thy towers, fair Hougoumont. Yet tho' thy garden's green arcade The marksman's fatal spot was made, Tho' on the shattered beeches fell The blended rage of shot and shell, Tho' from thy blackened portals torn Their fall the blighted fruit-trees mourn, Say, has not havoc bought a name Immortal in the rolls of fame? Yes! Agincourt may be forgot, And Cressy be an unknown spot, And Blenheim's name be new; But still in story and in song Through many an age remembered long, Shall live the towers of Hougoumont And the fields of Waterloo.