There’s a woman sobs her heart out, br With her head against the door, br For the man that’s called to leave her, br — God have pity on the poor! br But its beat, drums, beat br While the lads march down the street, br And its blow, trumpets blow, br Keep your tears until they go. br br There’s a crowd of little children br That march along and shout, br For it’s fine to play at soldiers br Now their fathers are called out. br So its beat, drums, beat; br But who’ll find them food to eat? br And its blow, trumpets, blow, br Oh, its little children know. br br There’s a mother who stands watching br For the last look of her son, br A worn poor widow woman, br And he her only one, br But its beat, drums, beat, br Though God knows when we shall meet: br And its blow trumpets, blow br We must smile and cheer them so. br br There’s a young girl who stands laughing br For she thinks a war is grand br And it’s fine to see the lads pass, br And it’s fine to hear the band, br So its beat, drums, beat, br To the fall of many feet: br And its blow, trumpets, blow, br God go with you where you go.