BALLADS. THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM. PART I. AT Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, 'Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors, 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, So here's to all gentlemen drummers "Brought up in the art military For four generations we are; My ancestors drumm'd for King Harry, VOL. I. And as each man in life has his station While Condé was waving the baton, "Ah! those were the days for commanders! The fortunes of France had undone! "He died, and our noble battalions The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook; When he heard they had taken my grandsire. "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. |