THERE'S a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons, <br />In a certain nameless city's quaint old square. <br />It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes, <br />And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer. <br />When it starts 'Ave Maria' there is no one in the throng <br />But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise; <br />And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong, <br />There is flung out on the breeze 'La Marseillaise'? <br /> <br />When it starts to render 'Sambre et Meuse,' the march that won the day <br />At the battle of the Marne, one sees again <br />The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array <br />Of our gallant sister-ally's blue-clad men. <br />And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear-- <br />While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel <br />That, though tongues and ways may vary, we've found brothers over here, <br />Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel. <br /> <br />For it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side, <br />Till their colors set ablaze the grey old square; <br />And it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide, <br />That will blaze the way to victory 'up there.' <br />So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our troth <br />To the Cause--the world set free!--for which we fight. <br />As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki both, <br />And the the bugles die away into the night<br /><br />Anonymous Americas<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-the-french-band-plays/
