The Drum-Major
'Tis the old drum-major, luckless knave;
How low his lot and dreary!
In the Emperor's time he blossomed brave:
How bright he was and cheery!
He balanced his stick and loudly smote,
His eyes with laughter dancing;
The silver lace upon his coat
I' the sun was always glancing.
And when he entered a village or town
With drum and martial cadence,
An echo went beating up and down
In the hearts of the wives and maidens.
He came, he saw, he conquered straight;
No handsomer man you met then;
With women's tears (they were his fate)
His black moustache was wet then.
Bear it we must! In every land,
When the foreign conqueror came there,
The lord was felled by the tyrant's hand,
The drummer subdued the dame there.
Patient and dumb as a German oak,
We bore the grief that galled us,
Till freedom's word the Powers spoke,
And forth to vengeance called us.
Like the bison in his battle-charge,
We raised our horns and rushed then;
We sang our Korner's songs at large,
The might of France we crushed then.
Those awful lays that thrilled us through,
The tyrant's ear will dread long;
The Emperor and the drummer, too,
They fled affrighted headlong.
The wage of sin at last they won, —
Oh, sad the end of such is! —
The Emperor Napoleon
Was caught in England's clutches.
On Saint Helena, England's yoke
To durance vile compelled him,
Till cancer of the stomach broke
The bitter bonds that held him.
The poor drum-major, once so bold,
Has lost his post as well now;
To save himself from hunger cold
He serves in our hotel now.
He scours the pot and tends the grate,
Must wood and water carry,
And up the stairs with palsied pate,
He coughs, and dares not tarry.
And Fritz, who calls here, never can
Deny his tongue its pleasure;
The long and slouching queer old man
He harries out of measure.
A truce to mockery, O Fritz!
Germania's sons should scorn thus
To polish bright their cruel wits
On greatness grown forlorn thus.
Such folk we should not so deride,
But treat with reverence rather;
Perhaps, upon your mother's side,
The grey-beard is your father.
How low his lot and dreary!
In the Emperor's time he blossomed brave:
How bright he was and cheery!
He balanced his stick and loudly smote,
His eyes with laughter dancing;
The silver lace upon his coat
I' the sun was always glancing.
And when he entered a village or town
With drum and martial cadence,
An echo went beating up and down
In the hearts of the wives and maidens.
He came, he saw, he conquered straight;
No handsomer man you met then;
With women's tears (they were his fate)
His black moustache was wet then.
Bear it we must! In every land,
When the foreign conqueror came there,
The lord was felled by the tyrant's hand,
The drummer subdued the dame there.
Patient and dumb as a German oak,
We bore the grief that galled us,
Till freedom's word the Powers spoke,
And forth to vengeance called us.
Like the bison in his battle-charge,
We raised our horns and rushed then;
We sang our Korner's songs at large,
The might of France we crushed then.
Those awful lays that thrilled us through,
The tyrant's ear will dread long;
The Emperor and the drummer, too,
They fled affrighted headlong.
The wage of sin at last they won, —
Oh, sad the end of such is! —
The Emperor Napoleon
Was caught in England's clutches.
On Saint Helena, England's yoke
To durance vile compelled him,
Till cancer of the stomach broke
The bitter bonds that held him.
The poor drum-major, once so bold,
Has lost his post as well now;
To save himself from hunger cold
He serves in our hotel now.
He scours the pot and tends the grate,
Must wood and water carry,
And up the stairs with palsied pate,
He coughs, and dares not tarry.
And Fritz, who calls here, never can
Deny his tongue its pleasure;
The long and slouching queer old man
He harries out of measure.
A truce to mockery, O Fritz!
Germania's sons should scorn thus
To polish bright their cruel wits
On greatness grown forlorn thus.
Such folk we should not so deride,
But treat with reverence rather;
Perhaps, upon your mother's side,
The grey-beard is your father.
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