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Upon his comrade's shoulder
They lifted him so grand,
With his dusty drum before him,
And his drumsticks in his hand!
To the fiery front of battle,
That nearer, nearer drew,—
And evermore he beat and beat
His rat-tat-too!
The wounded as he passed them
Looked up and gave a cheer:
And one in dying blessed him,
Between a smile and tear!
And the gray-backs—they are flying
Before the coats of blue,
For whom the little drummer beats
His rat-tat-too!
When the west was red with sunset,
The last pursuit was o'er,
Brave Lyon rode the foremost,
And looked the name he bore!
And before him on his saddle,
As a weary child would do,
Sat the little drummer fast asleep,
With his rat-tat-too.
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