Ballads. William Makepeace Thackeray

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.

       Table of Contents

      PART I.

      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 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 thump'd on a skin.

       "Brought up in the art military

       For four generations we are;

       My ancestors drumm'd 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 Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet