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, "Brought up in the art military For four generations we are; My ancestors drummed for King Harry, While Condé was waving the baton, My grandsire was trolling the sticks. "Ah! those were the days for commanders! My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne. |