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 glittering arms;
   And when Ambition’s voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

   I hate that drum’s discordant sound,
   Parading round, and round, and round:
   To me it talks of ravag’d plains,
   And burning towns, and ruin’d swains,
   And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
   And widows’ tears, and orphans’ moans;
   And all that Misery’s hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.