THE DRUM-MAJOR.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLII, Issue 12910, 5 July 1905, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE DRUM-MAJOR.

'TIS the old drum-major, luckless knave; How low his. lot and dreary! In the Emperor's time lie blossomed brave; How bright he' was and cheery! .lie balanced Jus stick and loudly smote, His eyes with laughter dancing;; The silver lace upon, his coat 1' the sun was always glancing.

And when, he entered 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, Wile 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 Railed us, Till freedom's word the Powers spoke, And forth to vengeance called us.

Like the bison in his battle-charge, Wo raised our horns and rushed then; We sang our Korner's songs at large, The might of Franco 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 lie serves in our hotel now.

He scoters the pots 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.

—Translated from the works of HENRICH Heine.

Years ago in Cork, a dear old parish priest took me over his school, of which lie was justly proud. He was especially proud of Lis Latin class, which he examined in my presence. Among other questions he asked this, " When is dies, a day, feminine in Latin?" Only the smallest boy in the class made an attempt at an answer. "On the twenty-fifth of March, father." "Twenty-fifth of March?" "Yes, father; shure isrn' that Lady Day?" replied the lad, with such a broad grin as showed he was #o.B6iious of his , admirable pun,. .