THE SCOTS BRIGADE;
OR,
THE OLD NINETY-FOURTH FOOT.
CHAPTER XXIII.
“When midnight hour is come,
The drummer forsakes his tomb,
And marches, beating his phantom-drum,
To and fro through the ghastly gloom.
“He plies the drum-sticks twain,
With fleshless fingers pale,
And beats, and beats again, and again,