I HEAR the drum roll, rub-a-dub, dub And the piccolo's shrill refrain; The boys in blue with hearts so true Are marching home again. I hear the drum, but it beats for me Despair and grief's tattoo; I'd be so glad if our only lad — Our Jim — poor Jim — marched too! I hear the tramp, the tramp, tramp, tramp Of the army marching by; Brave soldiers all, at their country's call They went to fight and die. Their task is done, with heads erect They pass there in review; Instead of tears I'd give them cheers If Jim — poor Jim — marched, too! I hear the clank, the clank, clank, clank Of the swords of captains gay; But my worn eyes rest on the blood-stained crest Of a hill far, far away. They left him there where the weeping winds Sing dirges faint and few — They're home — God's light! How grand the sight If Jim — poor Jim — marched, too! |