War’s Drum, a Poem

WAR'S 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 ravage's plains, And burning towns and ruined swains, And mangled limbs and dying groans, And all that misery's hand bestows, To fill the catalogue of human woes. Scott of Amwell.