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

That 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 it's beat, drums, beat,

Though God knows when we shall meet;

And it's blow, trumpets, blow,

We must smile and cheer them so.

There's a young girl who stands laughing,

For she thinks a war is grand,

And it's fine to see the lads pass,

And it's fine to hear the band.

So it's beat, drums, beat,

To the fall of many feet;

And it's blow, trumpets, blow,

God go with you where you go

To the war.