War I abhor, And yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fife, and I forget Wet eyes of widows, and forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul.
Without a soul—save this bright drink Of heady music, sweet as hell; And even my peace-abiding feet Go marching with the marching street, For yonder, yonder goes the fife, And what care I for human life! The tears fill my astonished eyes And my full heart is like to break, And yet 'tis all embannered lies, A dream those little drummers make.
O it is wickedness to clothe Yon hideous grinning thing that stalks Hidden in music, like a queen That in a garden of glory walks, Till good men love the thing they loathe. Art, thou hast many infamies, But not an infamy like this; O snap the fife and still the drum, And show the monster as she is.