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!