by John Scott of Amwell
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,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans;
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.