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