It's always been a mystery
Why there's no word in history of the Battle of Copenhagen.

There's never been a parallel
So far as ever l've heard tell
To the fighting and the biting
And the smashing and the crashing
And the lashing and the slashing
And the gnashing and the gashing,
To the yellishness and smellishness
And international hellishness of the Battle of Copenhagen.

Ten thousand stalwart Swedes
Advancing through the weeds to the Battle of Copenhagen.

Unlimited Italians
In column of batallions at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Ten tribes of red Pawnees
Were sulking behind trees at the Battle of Copenhagen.

A platoon of Albanians,
Supported by Ukranians
And also some Roumanians,
The dull ones and the brainy ones, at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Three thousand greasy Greeks,
Arrayed in leathern breeks
And smelling strong of leeks, at the Battle of Copenhagen.

A quantity of Turks
All waving bloody dirks at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Six hundred Abyssinians,
The fat ones and the skinny ones;
Two hundred of the Czeck
With their battle cry, "By Hzeck!" at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Eighteen hundred Scots,
Their plaidies tied in knots
And dangling pewter pots
(The dirty, low-down sots!) at the Battle of Copenhagen.

Two hundred Asiatics
In vari-colored Batiks—
A company of Japs
Bravely shooting craps—
A myriad of Mongolians,
The sinful and the holy ones,
With their friends, two Anatolians at the Battle of Copenhagen.

From out the Boreal Regions
Came a handful of Norwegians
To oppose these countless legions in the Battle of Copenhagen.

A half a million Jews
Ran back to tell the news of the Battle of Copenhagen.

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing
Gaily in the sunny beam;
List'ning to the wild birds singing,
By a falling crystal stream:
Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;
Trees with aged arms were warring.
O'er the swelling drumlie wave.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasure I enjoy'd:
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,
A' my flowery bliss destroy'd.
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me,
She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill;
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.