Drake's Drum was an English style pub on the Upper East Side of Manhattan owned by Frank Casa and Jim Duke. This is a website to gather memories, links, photos and a smattering of the amazing people who made the Drum their "home away from home". Welcome!
Contact us: drakesdrumbar@gmail.com
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Drake’s Drum
Drake he’s in his hammock an’ a thousand miles away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An’ dreamin’ arl the time O’ Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi’ sailor lads a-dancing’ heel-an’-toe,
An’ the shore-lights flashin’, an’ the night-tide dashin’,
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an’ ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha’ sleepin’ there below?)
Roving’ tho’ his death fell, he went wi’ heart at ease,
A’ dreamin’ arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
“Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder’s runnin’ low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,
An’ drum them up the Channel as we drumm’d them long ago.”
Drake he’s in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin’ there below?)
Slung atween the round shot, listenin’ for the drum,
An’ dreamin arl the time o’ Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,
Call him when ye sail to meet the foe;
Where the old trade’s plyin’ an’ the old flag flyin’
They shall find him ware an’ wakin’, as they found him long ago!
Sir Henry Newbolt -
Barroom Flashbacks: The Uncanny Insightfulness of Blind Ed
By Gary Regan longtime bartender, famous author and good sport.
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ny times review of the drum circa 1991
Drake’s Drum
Despite raging Anglophilia on these shores, the British pub has never quite made it across the Atlantic. Drake’s Drum (1629 Second Avenue, between 84th and 85th Streets) comes close to the real thing without lapsing into caricature. A snug little shoebox, it has a low beamed ceiling, lots of well-worn wood and Whitbread ale on tap. On the other side of a wooden divider across from the bar, tiny tables for two run the length of the front room, ideal for tete-a-tetes, just large enough to hold a steak and kidney pie, or fish and chips.
The decor sticks to a nautical theme, more or less, in honor of Sir Francis Drake and “a famous drum, I guess,” said one waitress. A wooden ship sits in the front window surrounded by signal flags. Heavily varnished ship paintings hang on the walls, and metal deck cleats and bits of rope have been deployed here and there. But it’s all pleasantly haphazard. Inexplicably, the heroic portrait of a World War II fighter plane sits behind the bar, along with assorted junk and British football banners. Nothing has been moved for a long time. It’s the kind of place that makes it easy to find a reason for another round.
