The Oldest Inhabitant Hears Far Off the Drums of Death
Sometimes ’tis far off, and sometimes ’tis nigh,
Such drummerdery noises too they be!
’Tis odd—oh, I do hope I baint to die
Just as the summer months be coming on,
And buffly chicken out, and bumble-bee:
Though, to be sure, I cannot hear 'em plain
For this drat row as goes a-drumming on.
Just like a little soldier in my brain.
And oh, I’ve heard we got to go through flame
And water-floods—but maybe ’tisn’t true!
I alius were a-frightened o’ the sea.
And burning fires—oh, it would be a shame
And all the garden ripe, and sky so blue.
Such drummerdery noises, too, they be.
