T HATE that DŘUM's discordant found,

Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To fell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittring arms;
And when AMBITION's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

I hate that DRUM's discordant found,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And Widows'tears, and ORPHANS' moans;

And all that mis’ry's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.