The Call To Arms In Our Street





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

That march along and shout,

For it's fine to play at soldiers

Now their fathers are called out.

So it's beat, drums, beat;

And who will find them food to eat?

And it's blow, trumpets, blow,

Oh, it's little children know.



* * * * *



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.



W. M. LETTS.





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