THE FIFES
THUMPS the big drum,
“Come!”
And thin and bitter-sweet the fifes are calling me—
“Come up and serve your country in the red fields over-sea.
”Come up and serve your King, in this his needful day,
“On the torn fields of the old world, four thousand miles away.”
Rap the little drums,
“Come!”
And shrill and thin as a child’s cry the black fifes call to me,
And wring my heart, and turn my face to the red fields over-sea—
“Come up and serve your country, in this her needful day,
”Where tyrants strike at her great heart, four thousand miles away.”
But soon the drums are silent. The thin fifes cease their cry,
The only sound is the thud of feet as the regiments go by;
And soft and clear and bitter-sweet a dear voice cries to me
Of the days of peace and love and ease that are not over-sea.
Oh, slow our feet are tramping, and the bitter dust drifts up.
Oh, slow our hearts are beating, and bitter is the cup.
Then—
Thuds the big drum,
“Come!”
And quick and high and sharp and thin the fifes cry out to me,
“Come out, come up and serve your King on the red fields over-sea.
”Stand up. Stand out for Freedom, in this distressful day,
“For they strike at all you have and love, four thousand miles away.”
