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
Who march along and shout,
For it's fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So it's beat, drums, beat;
But who'll find them food to eat?
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
Ah! the children little know.
There's a mother who stands watching
For the last look of her son,
A worn poor widow woman,
And he her only one.
But its beat, drums, beat,
Though God knows when we shall meet;
And it's blow, trumpets, blow:
We must smile and cheer them so.