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'Tis of a little drummer,
The story I shall tell,
Of how he marched to battle,
And all that there befell.
Out in the West with Lyon
(For once the name was true).
For whom the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
Our army rose at midnight,
Ten thousand men as one,
Each slinging on his knapsack,
And snatching up his gun:
"Forward!" and off they started
As all good soldiers do,
When the little drummer beats for them
The rat-tat-too.
Across a rolling country,
Where the mist began to rise,
Past many a blackened farm-house,
Till the sun was in the skies:
Then we met the rebel pickets,
Who skirmished and withdrew,
While the little drummer beat and beat
The rat-tat-too.
Along the wooded hollows
The line of battle ran.
Our centre poured a volley,
And the fight at once began;
For the rebels answered shouting,
And a shower of bullets flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat too.
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