Across a rolling country, Where the mist began to rise; Past many a blackened farmhouse, Till the sun was in the skies; Then we met the rebel pickets, Who skirmished and withdrew, While the little drummer beat, and beat The _rat-tat-too_. Along the wooded hollows The line of battle ran, Our center poured a volley, And the fight at once began; For the rebels answered shouting, And a shower of bullets flew; But still the little drummer beat His _rat-tat-too_. He stood among his comrades, As they quickly formed the line, And when they raised their muskets He watched the barrels shine. When the volley rang, he started, For war to him was new; But still the little drummer beat His _rat-tat-too_. It was a sight to see them, That early autumn day, Our soldiers in their blue coats, And the rebel ranks in gray; The smoke that rolled between them, The balls that whistled through, And the little drummer as he beat His _rat-tat-too_! His comrades dropped around him,-- By fives and tens they fell, Some pierced by minie bullets, Some torn by shot and shell; They played against our cannon, And a caisson’s splinters flew; But still the little drummer beat His _rat-tat-too_! The right, the left, the center,-- The fight was everywhere; They pushed us here,--we wavered,-- We drove and broke them there. The graybacks fixed their bayonets, And charged the coats of blue, But still the little drummer beat His _rat-tat-too_! “Where is our little drummer?” His nearest comrades say, When the dreadful fight is over, And the smoke has cleared away. As the rebel corps was scattering He urged them to pursue, So furiously he beat, and beat The _rat-tat-too_! He stood no more among them, For a bullet, as it sped, Had glanced and struck his ankle, And stretched him with the dead! He crawled behind a cannon, And pale and paler grew; But still the little drummer beat His _rat-tat-too_! They bore him to the surgeon, A busy man was he: “A drummer boy--what ails him?” His comrades answered, “See!” As they took him from the stretcher A heavy breath he drew, And his little fingers strove to beat The _rat-tat-too_! The ball had spent its fury: “A scratch!” the surgeon said, As he wound the snowy bandage Which the lint was staining red. “I must leave you now, old fellow!” “Oh, take me back with you, For I know the men are missing me And the _rat-tat-too_!”