The Call To Arms In Our Street Poem by Winifred Mabel Letts

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 its beat, drums, beat
While the lads march down the street,
And its 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 its beat, drums, beat;
But who’ll find them food to eat?
And its blow, trumpets, blow,
Oh, its little children 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 its beat, drums, beat,
Though God knows when we shall meet:
And its 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 its beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet:
And its blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go.