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I hate that drum's discordant sound
Parading round and round and round
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields
And lures from cities and from fields
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace and glittering arms
And when ambition's voice commands
To march and fight and fall in foreign lands
I hate that drum's discordant sound
Parading round and round and round
To me it talks of ravaged plains
And burning towns and ruined swains
And mangled limbs and dying groans
Widows' tears, orphans' moans
And all that misery's hand bestows
To fill the catalogue of human woes
Written by: Bob Davenport, Scott, John
