"And now daddy cross'd 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 cross'd 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 moor'd in our bay. Says our general, 'Drive me yon redcoats 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. "In Chesapeake Bay we were landed. In vain strove the British to pass: Rochambeau our armies commanded, Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu! How I rattled the drumsticks The day we march'd into Yorktown; Ten thousand of beef-eating British Their weapons we caused to lay down. "Then homewards returning victorious, In peace to our country we came, And were thanked for our glorious actions By Louis Sixteenth of the name. What drummer on earth could be prouder Than I, while I drumm'd at Versailles To the lovely court ladies in powder, And lappets, and long satin-tails? "The Princes that day pass'd before us, Our countrymen's glory and hope; Monsieur, who was learned in Horace, D'Artois, who could dance the tightrope. One night we kept guard for the Queen At her Majesty's opera-box, While the King, that majestical monarch, Sat filing at home at his locks. "Yes, I drumm'd for the fair Antoinette, And so smiling she look'd and so tender, That our officers, privates, and drummers, All vow'd they would die to defend her. But she cared not for us honest fellows, Who fought and who bled in her wars, She sneer'd at our gallant Rochambeau, And turned Lafayette out of doors. "Ventrebleu! then I swore a great oath, No more to such tyrants to kneel. And so just to keep up my drumming, One day I drumm'd down the Bastille. Ho, landlord! a stoup of fresh wine. Come, comrades, a bumper we'll try, And drink to the year eighty-nine And the glorious fourth of July!