Parantha’s Dream
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
The twelve year old boy
Parantha Parapanjani
yearned to be a drummer
in the Royal Indian Army.
Using two wooden sticks
and a biscuit tin so old,
he imitated the drummers
and their drum rolls.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
A thief stole his drum
leaving him with nothing to play,
but his father’s old tin leg,
stepped in to save the day.
From a string around his neck,
it swung about his waist,
as he practiced with the band
outside the military gates.
He marched up and down
with his string tied tin.
Keeping in time with the
beat and marching.
One day a limping man and boy
walked down the busy street,
as Parantha drummed up
a leg moving kind of beat.
The regimental sergeant major
recognised the sound,
and saw the leg being played,
as it made its way to town.
So impressed was the sergeant
he enlisted the boy in the band.
A new side-drum he was given
and a stick for each hand.
He marched up and down
with his Indian army band,
so proud to be a drummer,
with a stick in each hand.
poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The Drummer Boy
A drummer boy dressed in white tapped his drum as he passed by my bed,
he never looked at me, and not a word was said.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, was his marching beat.
There was blood from a wound, but he kept to his feet.
As he marched back and forth it looked as though he was going to fall,
but he continued to beat his drum, as he walked through the wall.
On his departure the sound of a bugle was heard above the drum,
whistling rifle shots and cannon fire added to the battle’s hum.
A boy dressed in red and white, blowing a bugle marched passed my bed,
he had suffered a wound, and blood was flowing from his head.
Blowing with all his might I could see the determination on his face,
he seemed to be running out of breath, as he slowly lost the pace.
The drummer boy came up beside him and marched by his side,
the bugle boy stood up straight, and blew the charge as he cried.
Another drummer boy passed my bed followed by two more,
the bugle boy stood and looked ahead, and then fell to the floor.
Several soldiers charged pass, with bayonets fixed for attack,
passing the drummer boy one yelled, “Keep playing and don’t look back.”
With the sound of bullets in the air and shells exploding all around
soldiers charged and fell by my bed to the now distant drumming sound.
It suddenly all went quiet as everyone disappeared through the wall,
except for the drummer boy who played as he stood tall.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum; a much softer beat,
he then looked at me with tears in his eyes, as he faded at my feet.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Band
Hey, there! Listen awhile! Listen awhile, and come.
Down in the street there are marching feet, and I hear the beat of a drum.
Bim! Boom!! Out of the room! Pick up your hat and fly!
Isn't it grand? The band! The band! The band is marching by!
Oh, the clarinet is the finest yet, and the uniforms are gay.
Tah, rah! We don't go home -
Oom, pah! We won't go home -
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home when the band begins to play.
Oh, see them swinging along, swinging along the street!
Left, right! buttons so bright, jackets and caps so neat.
Ho, the Fire Brigade, or a dress parade of the Soldier-men is grand;
But everyone, for regular fun, wants a Big-Brass-Band.
The slide-trombone is a joy alone, and the drummer! He's a treat!
So, Rackety-rumph! We don't go home -
Boom, Bumph! We won't go home -
Oh, we shan't go home, and we can't go home while the band is in the street.
Tooral-ooral, Oom-pah!
The band is in the street!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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In memory of a certain RSM
The band was already playing
a marching song
and officers, non-commissioned ranks
and troops spotless
in berets, browns and shining boots
marched and halted in perfect unison
on the parade ground.
With a flat hat like a chauffeur,
or maybe like the baggage man
at the hotel
with visor just above his eyes,
dressed in step outs
he drove the Mercedes Benz
through the gate
to the parking aria
next to the parade grounds
bringing it to a elegant halt,
jumped out and walked
right to the back door
bended double and opened it
to let a lady and younger woman out.
Then with pace stick
swinging to and fro
on he came like the leader
of the band
but in control
of the whole parade,
set over officers outranking him
waving the stick in his hand,
walking up and down
like a huge red faced clown.
[RSM = Regimental Sergeant-Major.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Tuba
I was once in a band
in school long ago
when the Poison was big
as their hair
When I was a lad
I played a Golden Tuba
and marched all
over the land
We played in parks
for elderly folks
we played in the gym
for our parents
but mine weren't there
We marched in parades
and my Tuba shined
because I polished it
every day and night
I was so proud of that
Tuba and the sound it
produced that I played
it at home in my room
marching in place
like the whole band
was there
and such pride, such pride
until Dad broke it.
poem by John W. McEwers
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Military Death
He marched along
to the cadence of the drum.
He clenched his fists
so overcome
with sorrow and grief
and so much pain.
And as he marched
he felt the rain.
It fell with precision
like the tears in his eyes.
For a friend lives
and a friend dies.
When they reached
the final resting place
the final beat of the drum
did erase
all sound but the weeping
and his long deep sigh
as he gave his salute
and said goodbye.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Her Drummer Boy
Once upon a
time
a very young
girl
started
searching
for her
drummer-boy.
She came
in
contact
with one
thinking
this
is he
not so.
Time passed
quickly
other drum
beats
were heard
but they
were not
the right
beat.
Then one
day
in the far
distance
she heard
a foreign
drum
so very
different.
It was a
new love
song
one
she had
never
heard
before.
The drum
beat
grew
louder
louder
bidding her
come and
explore.
As she
stepped
near
there was
he
standing
in the
forrest
alone.
drumming
their
love song.
At last
she had
found her
drummer-boy
the one
she spent
years
searching
for.
poem by Heather Burns
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Beat Of Your Drum
Photograph king, watches you go
Now fashions may change, heaven knows, but you
Still leave a stain on me
Only to go colours may fade
The seasons may change, weather blows, but you still leave a mark on me
Wrong-negative fades-never the twain, reckless and tame
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat I beat it
I feel it
Disco brat-follow the pack
Watching you peel, heaven knows, prison cant hold all this greedy intention
Only to go-i picture you now
Music may change-hi-di-ho keen to follow your nose
Wrong-love out of tune
Sweet is the night, bright light destroys me
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
I like to beat on your drum
I like to beat on your drum
I like your face in the crowd
I like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
Cant beat it
I feel it
Ho beat it
I beat it
Oh yeah
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to yell it out loud
Id like to beat on your drum
Cant beat it cant beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like your face in the crowd
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Cant beat it
Cant beat it
I be there
Baet it all out
Beat it all in the crowd
Beat it beat it beat it beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to blow your horne
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Ahhhhhh
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Slow Marching Band
Would you join a slow marching band?
And take pleasure in your leaving
As the ferry sails and tears are dried
And cows come home at evening.
Could you get behind a slow marching band?
And join together in the passing
Of all we shared through yesterdays
In sorrows neverlasting.
Take a hand and take a bow.
You played for me; thats all for now, oh, and never
Mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly --- dont look behind you.
Dont say goodbye, love. I wont remind you.
Dream of me as the nights draw cold
Still marking time through winter.
You paid the piper and called the tune
And you marched the band away.
Take a hand and take a bow.
You played for me; thats all for now, oh, and never
Mind the words just hum along and keep on going.
Walk on slowly --- dont look behind you.
Dont say goodbye, love. I wont remind you.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can You Hear It
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
I like that beat as it comes along.
It’s the same beat and the same tune,
we all know it’ll be here soon.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
fast or slow it’s a catchy song.
I kind of look forward to its day
and it's a shame when it goes away.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
It's getting closer and it won’t be long.
At last it's coming down our street
with its catchy drumming beat.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
it's so simple I can’t go wrong.
It's getting louder as it comes near,
the people watching give it a cheer.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the beat’s blasting out loud and strong.
The man inside this sweeping machine
sings as he works to keep the streets clean.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the sounds are fading as it goes along.
But it's nice to know as he sweeps the curb,
his drum, drum, tipi tap, tong, has the final word.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Marching Band
Marching at the football game
gives me a sense of unique fame.
Peeking for the drum major's beat
keeps us bound like an elite.
Increasing the hours of our drill
does not make us yearn to thrill.
Spending time with the band
makes the hot days seem grand.
Don't Let Me Die in China, Lord!
I had a fright the other night,
I dreamt that I was ill,
The Angels fluttered round my bed,
They said: 'Now you be still! '
My heart beat like a pounding drum,
The pain was like a sword,
I had one thought, and only one:
'Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
The vision would not let me be,
I saw the future clear,
The landlord breaking down the door
To find me lying there.
'The Lao Wai’s gone, not paid the rent! '
He’d say in pu tong hua,
'We’d better call the embassy
They’ll send around a car.'
The embassy refused the car,
They didn’t want to show,
'He must belong to someone else,
He isn’t ours, you know! '
The neighbours filed in through the door
To look the last on me,
And clear the flat of anything
Not quite nailed down, you see.
'He looks all right, now that he’s dead, '
One mother told her son,
'Perhaps we should have talked to him.'
'- a little late now, Mum!
They say he studied pu tong hua
But never got it sussed,
We’ll have to make the funeral
As if he’s one of us.'
So later on that day they brought
The baskets full of flowers,
The big round silvery disks that shone
While they drew straws for hours,
For who would wail and cry for me
As I had no-one near,
So two wai po’s in old black clothes
Said: 'Fifty kwai an hour! '
For fifty kwai they set their chant
And woke the neighborhood,
And no one said to keep it down,
The Chinese understood.
A funeral is a sacred thing
For Han or old Yang Wei,
They kept their vigil for three days,
Then said: 'Today’s the day! '
At four o’clock that morning
In the stilly dark, forlorn,
They set up all their crackers
To erupt before the dawn,
They woke up all the neighbours
Who came down to see who wept,
While other Lao Wai’s turned in bed,
Rolled over, cursed, and slept.
And then the band, it started up,
An old Han marching song,
The big bass drum beat out of time,
A little late for some;
A little early for all those
Who just had got to sleep,
I wasn’t quite the flavour of
The neighborhood that week.
At six o’clock they marched away
All following the hearse,
A wooden cart pulled by four men,
I thought: 'Could things be worse? '
They marched along the highway
Disregarding life and limb,
The band it played along the way
A revolution hymn.
Then I awoke, (the pain had gone) ,
A-tremble, in a sweat,
I wasn’t ready then, I knew,
For Buddha’s belly yet!
And so I raised my eyes on high
To plead, entreat, implore:
'If you would grant me just one wish:
Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
21 May 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Drumbeat Of War
The Drum Beat of War.
Smoke came from the mountain pass troops marched to the border,
general mobilizing declared, the old spoke of wars of yore the young
stopped slouching and looked around for the enemy. Ministers and
king wore uniform, laws were passed against a fifth columnists and
against anyone who had a different opinion than the norm; although
many were arrested no one was tried. War cry had brought order from
the chaos of democratic peace.
The jingoistic fever lasted all summer a good time for marching and
military parades, women wore flowers in their hair ready to kiss loved
ones goodbye. Fall rain, the north-westerly blew cold and war didn’t
happen, leaders congratulated themselves for winning the peace, and as
big snowflakes slowly fell so did our realisation that we open eyed had
marched into an open prison and could no longer travel anywhere, in
our country, without a passport.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Please Dont Drag That String Around
(words & music by blackwell - scott)
You like to keep me dangling on a string
cause you know without you my life dont mean a thing
So I beg you
Please dont drag that string around, oh no
Well, what if it should break
Oh, tell me, what would I do then
Keep that string up off the ground
Oh, yeah, remember my heart is tied to the other end
Yes, Im your puppet, my heart is in your hand
One twist of the wrist and I jump to your command
So I beg you
Please dont drag that string around, oh no
Well, what if it should break
What would I do then
Baby, keep that string up off the ground
Oh, yeah, remember my heart is tied to the other end
I feel inside me, as sure as anything
One day Ill mean more to you than a puppet on a string
So I beg you
Please dont drag that string around, oh no
Well, what if it should break
Oh, tell me, what would I do then
Keep that string up off the ground
Oh, yeah, remember my heart is tied to the other end
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Edinburgh Military Tattoo
An August evening, and people make their way to
Edinburgh Castle for the world famous Military Tattoo.
Once everyone has arrived and taken their seats,
From the battlements, sounds a steady drum beat.
Soon, a large corps of drummers appears,
To the audience’s applause and rousing cheers.
Each of the soldiers, dressed in their smart uniforms,
Has been up, rehearsing, since the first break of dawn.
The drummer’s skills are most highly rated:
They perform all kinds of rhythms, including syncopated.
The sound of the big bass drum, through my body, resonates;
Its booming beat similar to that of my own pulsing heart rate.
The drummers are replaced by another military band;
No drums this time, but they have bagpipes in hand.
The whole event is a real feast for ears and eyes.
Some of the tunes played, I instantly recognise.
During the show, the arena is constantly filled,
With military personnel demonstrating their skills.
Soldiers stand to attention in a long regimented, straight line,
Then, as one, move their feet, as they stand there marking time.
The spectacle of the Massed Band of The Royal Air Force,
Makes the blood in my veins race and excitedly course.
You can’t help but be moved by the sights and the sounds,
Of one of the world’s most famous military displays around.
The audience of some seven thousand people strong,
Sit enraptured, taping their feet and clapping along.
The Esplanade, where the action all takes place, sits
In front of the impressive stone castle which is floodlit.
This stunning pageant has a truly international flavour.
Talents from around the world, the audience can savour.
To a Scottish fiddle, traditional dancers swirl.
Regimental flags are ceremoniously unfurled.
And, just as all this action has made the audience rather hyper,
They are calmed down again by the lament of the lone piper.
To the ramparts, where the piper is stood, all eyes are drawn,
As the pipes play a haunting melody, traditionally, used to mourn.
Near the end, my neighbours link their arms with mine,
As, together, we sing a rousing chorus of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’
The audience make their way home, and soon, a hush falls.
I stroll back to my hotel, feeling glad to have been a part of it all.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Beat the plowshare
Pound the drum
Of war to come
Rhythm on steel
Red from the forge
Forms the sword
To carry to war
The sledge makes beat
On thinning edge
As it pounds
pounds
pounds
pounds
It sounds the drum
Of war to come
Soon it will be echoed
By marching men
cries of battle
Sounds of war
The sword will lead
Before the flag
Followed by the sound
Of drums
Pounding
Pounding
To war
Today, I beat my plowshare
And I listen to the drum
poem by James Timothy Jarrett
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Feeling the draught
Tom tiddle om, tiddle om tom tom.
The drummers played as they marched along,
close behind were the infantry.
they were smart as smart could be.
The cavalry were there of course,
each man riding on his horse.
Oh what a wonderful sight to see
the soldiers in their finery
.
At the head was Major drum
who had a very large tum tum.
He was dressed in red and gray,
But his big tum tum got in the way.
As he marched so very proudly.
Someone in the crowd said loudly.
He wont cut such a dashing figure,
If his tum tum gets any bigger.
The people yelled, the people cheered.,
the king was laughing in his beard.
The queen. she nearly had a fit.
when the Major’s trousers split.
,
First they sniggered then they laughed.
when the Major felt the draught.
No one there had ever seen
a major wearing shorts of emerald green.
April 2003
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Prelude
BY sunny market-place and street
Wherever I go my drum I beat,
And wherever I go in my coat of red
The ribbons flutter about my head.
I seek recruits for wars to come -
For slaughterless wars I beat the drum,
And the shilling I give to each new ally
Is hope to live and courage to die.
I know that new recruits shall come
Wherever I beat the sounding drum,
Till the roar of the march by country and town
Shall shake the tottering Dagons down.
For I was objectless as they
And loitering idly day by day;
But whenever I heard the recruiters come,
I left my all to follow the drum.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Little Drummer Girl
To me it seems like Christmas is lost
'Cuz it's not about celebrating anymore
It's just about giving to receive
And the illest thing to me about the little drummer boy
Or the little drummer girl in my case, I mean
Is that all that Shorty had was her drum, that's it
And through her drum, she gave Jesus her soul
There ain't no amount of riches that could ever amount to that
You know what I'm sayin'?
Ba dee ah, ba dee ah
Come on, they told me
A new born king to see
Our finest gifts we bring to lay before the king
So here we come
Oh, ra pum pum pum pum
Baby Jesus, I am a poor girl too
I have no gift to bring
That's fit to give a king
Shall I play for you on my drum?
Mary nodded
The ox and lamb kept time
I played my drum for Him
I played my best for Him
Then he smiled at me, me and my drum
Me and my drum
Rum pum pum pum
Pa rum pum pum pum
Pa rum pum pum pum (oh yeah)
Pa rum pum pum pum (oh)
Pa rum pum pum pum
Pa rum pum pum pum (come on they told me)
Pa rum pum pum pum (a new born king to see)
Pa rum pum pum pum (can I play my drum for him)
Pa rum pum pum pum
song performed by by Alicia Keys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tied for happiness (A love song)
My two your two, two-two are four,
Eyes come together,
Nothing else more.
Dragged towards you by your eyes;
You pierced my heart to make it fly,
Our eyes aligned we both got allure
Nothing else more.
One step you marched one step me
Both of us joined and tied in a string
We happened to be one, I am sure,
Nothing else more.
We will live together happily in a home
We will go together Sydney and Rome
We will kid together we will mature
Nothing else more.
We’ll have children and be happy in life
A happy home is nothing less the paradise
Tied for happiness and for adore
Nothing else more.
(C) S.D. Tiwari
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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