At Paris, hard by the Maine barriers, Whoever will choose to repair, Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors May haply fall in with old Pierre. On the sunshiny bench of a tavern He sits and he prates of old wars, And moistens his pipe of tobacco With a drink that is named after Mars. The beer makes his tongue run the quicker, And as long as his tap never fails, Thus over his favorite liquor Old Peter will tell his old tales. Says he, "In my life's ninety summers Strange changes and chances I've seen,-- So here's to all gentlemen drummers That ever have thump'd on a skin.…
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