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He stood among his comrades,
As they quickly formed the line,
And when they raised their muskets
He watched the barrels shine!
When the volley rang, he started,
For war to him was new:
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
It was a sight to see them,
That early autumn day,
Our soldiers in their blue coats,
And the rebel ranks in gray;
The smoke that rolled between them
The balls that whistled through,
And the little drummer as he beat
His rat-tat-too.
His comrades dropped around him—
By fives and tens they fell,
Some pierced by minie bullets,
Some torn by shot and shell;
They played against our cannon,
And a caisson's splinters flew;
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
The right, the left, the centre—
The fight was everywhere:
They pushed us here,—we wavered—
We drove and broke them there.
The gray-backs fixed their bayonets,
And charged the coats of blue,
But still the little drummer beat
His rat-tat-too.
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