BALLADS.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.

PART I.

Ar 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 favorite 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 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 lackeys, and panders,
The fortunes of France had undone !
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, -
What foeman resisted us then?
No; my grandsire was ever victorious,

My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.

"He died, and our noble battalions

The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook;
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,
The victory lay with Malbrook.

The news it was brought to King Louis;
Corbleu! how his majesty swore,

When he heard they had taken my grandsire,
And twelve thousand gentlemen more!

"At Namurs, Ramillies, and Malplaquet Were we posted, on plain or in trench; Malbrook only need to attack it,

And away from him scampered 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 perished Louis the Great,

Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted.

His coffin they pelted with mud,

His body they tried to lay hands on;

And so having buried King Louis

They loyally served his great-grandson.

"God save the beloved King Louis!
(For so he was nicknamed by some,)
And now came my father to do his

King's orders, and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, To hear Daddy drumming the English

From the meadows of famed Fontenoy.

"So well did he drum in that battle, That the enemy showed us their backs; Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattle

The sticks, and to follow old Saxe!

We next had Soubise as a leader,

And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in spite of Dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz.

"And now Daddy crossed the Atlantic,
To drum for Montcalm and his men ;
Morbleu! but it makes a man frantic,
To think we were beaten again!
My daddy he crossed the wide ocean,
My mother brought me on her neck,
And we came in the year fifty-seven

To guard the good town of Quebec.

"In the year fifty-nine came the Britons, -
Full well I remember the day, –
They knocked at our gates for admittance,
Their vessels were moored in our bay.
Says our general, "Drive me yon red-coats
Away to the sea, whence they come!"

So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs,
We marched at the sound of the drum.

"I think I can see my poor mammy
With me in her hand as she waits,
And our regiment, slowly retreating,
Pours back through the citadel gates.
Dear mammy, she looks in their faces,
And asks if her husband is come.
He is lying all cold on the glacis,
And will never more beat on the drum.

"Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys; He died like a soldier. in glory;

Here's a glass to the health of all drum boys,

And now I'll commence my own story.

Once more did we cross the salt ocean;
We came in the year eighty-one ;

And the wrongs of my father the drummer

Were avenged by the drummer his son.