Twas the night of midwinter, when all through Geneva,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a beaver,

The washing all hung, by the chimney with care,
In hopes that come morning, dry clothes would be there,

The children were nestled, all safe in their beds,
While scents of hot soup, filled their sweet heads,

And Madame in her bonnet, apron in her lap,
Had just settled down, for a long winters nap,

When out on the walls, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed, to see what was the matter.

Away to the window, I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash,

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of midday to object below,

When what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But enemy troops, in formidable gear,

With the Duke of Savoy, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment, this was a devilish trick.

In blackened armour, they scaled the walls,
As they clambered, and scrambled, and planned our downfall.

Now musketeer, now canoneer, now pikeman, now fusilier,
On scoundrel, on crook, on rascal, damned villains!

To the top of the outer wall, to the foot of the inner wall
Now dash-away, dash-away, and damned you all!

A sentry alerted that all is awry,
Having met with alarm, emits a loud cry,

But up to the money gate, the rapscallions they flew,
With an armoury full of weapons, and bad intent too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard from the gloom,
A rattling, and clattering from our little room,

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Away from the kitchen, Mère Royaume came with a bound.

She was dressed in night wear, from her head to her foot,
And her apron, tied round her, had remained put,

A cauldron of soup, she turned to with a knack,
And engaged in removing it from the hot rack,

Her eyes, how they darkened; her brows, how creased,
Her lips were drawn tight, her anger unceased,

Her bare little feet scuttled across the floor,
As she emerged from the kitchen door,

The lump of her pot, she held tight with gritted teeth,
And the steam it encircled her head like a wreath.

She had a broad face, and little beads of sweat,
From all the effort were making her wet,

She was determined and grim, a right angry old elf,
I started when I saw her, in spite of myself,

A wink of her eye and a twist of her head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread,

She spoke not a word, but went straight to her work,
And from the window, her soup she upturned, with a jerk,

From the enemy below a cry soon arose,
Rising up through the night, we heard their woes,

The brigands at bay, burned by the soup, gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle,

But I heard Madame exclaim, as the enemy fled from sight,
“Happy Escalade to all, and to all a goodnight!”

© Image courtesy of http://www.1602.ch

 

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With credit to Clement Clarke Moore’s “‘Twas the night before Christmas” poem which inspired, and provided some of the lines, for my parody.

You can find l’escalade Part 2 here.