The Drum

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