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 glitt’ring arms;

And when Ambition’s voice commands,

To 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 ruin’d swains,

And mangled limbs, and dying groans,

And widow’s tears, and orphans moans,

And all that Misery’s hand bestows,

To fill a catalogue of woes.