THERE'S a woman sobs her heart out, With her head against the door, For the man that's called to leave her, —God have pity on the poor! But it's beat, drums, beat, While the lads march down the street, And it's blow, trumpets, blow, Keep your tears until they go. There's a crowd of little children Who march along and shout, For it's fine to play at soldiers Now their fathers are called out. So it's beat, drums, beat; But who'll find them food to eat? And it's blow, trumpets, blow, Ah! the children little know. There's a mother who stands watching For the last look of her son, A worn poor widow woman, And he her only one. But it's beat, drums, beat, Though God knows when we shall meet; And it's blow, trumpets, blow: We must smile and cheer them so. There's a young girl who stands laughing, For she thinks a war is grand, And it's fine to see the lads pass, And it's fine to hear the band. So it's beat, drums, beat, To the fall of many feet; And it's blow, trumpets, blow, God go with you where you go! |