"The Drummer-Boy"
A poor drummer-oy am I!
They are taking me from my cell.
Had I remained a drummer-boy,
I would not have lain in prison.
O gallows, that stand so high.
How fearful you appear!
I shall look at you no more.
For I know you are the home where I belong.
When the soldiers march past
To other quarters than mine
And then they ask who I was
Say, "Drummer from the colonel's own regiment".
Good night, you stones of marble,
You hills and high mountains,
Good night, you officers,
Corporal and grenadier.
I cry loud and clear,
From you I take a soldier's leave.
Good night,
Good night.
--
if music be the food of love,
tho' yet the treat is only sound.
Sure I must perish by your charms,
unless you save me in your arms.
---- Heveningham/Weichin Chen
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