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THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.
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,
Old Peter will tell his old tales.
Strange changes and chances I've seen, So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thump'd on a skin.
“ Brought up in the art military
For four generations we are ;
The Huguenot lad of Navarre. voi, I.
And as each man in life has his station
According as Fortune may fix, While Condé was waving the baton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.
“Ah! those were the days for commanders!
What glories my grandfather won, Ere bigots, and lackies, and panders
The fortunes of France had undone!
What foeman resisted us then ?
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.
“He died, and our noble battalions
The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook ;
The victory lay with Malbrook.
Corbleu! how his majesty swore,
And twelve thousand gentlemen more !
“At Namur, Ramilies, and Malplaquet
Were we posted, on plain or in trench, Malbrook only need to attack it,
And away from him scamper'd we French. Cheer up ! ’tis no use to be glum, boys,
'Tis written, since fighting begun, That sometimes we fight and we conquer,
And sometimes we fight and we run.
“ To fight and to run was our fate,
Our fortune and fame had departed; And so perish'd Louis the Great,
Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted.