Hark to the Sounds

Hark to the sound of the bugle;
hark to the distant drum.
Hear the beat of marching feet
of the soldiers as they come.

The first contingent is leaving;
they're on their way at last.
The crowds are loudly cheering them on
from the streets where they're amassed.

A mother is softly weeping
as she kisses her son good-bye.
There's a soldier holding his lovely bride;
And he's telling her not to cry.

There is sadness here and sorrow;
there are hearts and eyes aflame.
And yes, there's some rejoicing,
with shouts of wild acclaim.

The thundering rumble of the guns;
the whine of the shrapnel shell
is music to these hardy sons
who fight in that bloody hell.

The sharp commands; the danger;
the crack of a rifle shot -
There go the sons of soldiers
Who have already fought.

E.G.C. Richards