Excerpt from Ballads a Legend of the Rhine, Etc

Ballads.

The Chronicle of The Drum.

At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,

Whoever will choose to repair,

Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors

May haply fall in with old Pierre.

On the sunshiny bench of a tavern

He sits and he prates of old wars,

And moistens his pipe of tobacco

With a drink that is named after Mars.

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,

And as long as his tap never fails,

Thus over his favourite liquor

Old Peter will tell his old tales.

Says he, "In my life"s ninety summers

Strange changes and chances I"ve seen, -

So here"s to all gentlemen drummers

That ever have thumped on a skin.

"Brought up in the art military

For four generations we are;

My ancestors drummed for King Harry,

The Huguenot lad of Navarre.

And as each man in life has his station

According as Fortune may fix,

While Conde was waving the baton,

My grandsire was trolling the sticks.

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