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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE DRUM-MAJOR, by HEINRICH HEINE Poet's Biography
First Line: The old drum-major it is that we see
Last Line: The old man is your father!
Subject(s): Drums; Grief; Musical Instruments; Sin; Sorrow; Sadness
First Line: The old drum-major it is that we see
Last Line: The old man is your father!
Subject(s): Drums; Grief; Musical Instruments; Sin; Sorrow; Sadness
THE old drum-major it is that we see;
Poor fellow, he's pull'd down sadly!
In the Emperor's time a youngster was he,
And merrily lived and gladly.
He used to balance his ponderous stick,
While a smile on his face play'd lightly;
The silver-lace on his tunic so thick
In the rays of the sun gleam'd brightly.
Whene'er with a mighty roll of the drum
He enter'd a village or city,
He caused an echo responsive to come
In the heart of each girl, plain or pretty
He came and saw and conquer'd too
Each fair one welcomed him in;
His black moustache was wetted through
With tears of German women.
Resistance was vain! In every land
That the foreign invaders came to,
The Emperor vanquished the gentlemen, and
The drum-major each maiden and dame to.
Our sorrows full long we patiently bore
Like oaks, with no one to heed 'em,
Until the Authorities gave us once more
The signal to battle for freedom.
Like buffaloes rushing on to the fray,
We toss'd our horns up proudly,
The yoke of France we cast away,
The songs of Korner sang loudly.
O terrible verses! the tyrant's ear
At their awful sound revolted;
The Emperor and the drum-major in fear
Precipitately bolted.
They both of them reap'd the wages of sin,
And came to an end inglorious;
The Emperor Napoleon tumbled in
The hands of the Britons victorious.
In Saint Helena his time he now pass'd
In martyrdom, banish'd from France, Sir,
And, after long suff'ring, died at last
Of that terrible ailment cancer.
The poor drum-major, too, fell in disgrace,
And lost his situation;
In our hotel he took the place
Of boots, -- what degradation!
He warms the over, he scours the pots,
And wood and water fetches;
His grey head wags as he wheezingly trots
Up the stairs, so weak the poor wretch is.
When Fritz comes to see me, he finds himself
Inclined to jeer and rally
The comical lanky poor old elf
And his motions shilly-shally.
O Fritz, a truce to raillery, please!
The sons of Germany never
Should fallen greatness love to tease,
Or to torment endeavour.
Such people you ought to regard with pride
And filial piety rather;
Perchance upon the mother's side
The old man is your father!
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