On pay-day nights, neck-full with beer, br Old soldiers stumbling homeward here, br Homeward (still dazzled by the spark br Love kindled in some alley dark) br Young soldiers mooning in slow thought, br Start suddenly, turn about, are caught br By a dancing sound, merry as a grig, br Tom Taylor's piccolo playing jig. br Never was blown from human cheeks br Music like this, that calls and speaks br Till sots and lovers from one string br Dangle and dance in the same ring. br Tom, of your piping I've heard said br And seen--that you can rouse the dead, br Dead-drunken men awash who lie br In stinking gutters hear your cry, br I've seen them twitch, draw breath, grope, sigh, br Heave up, sway, stand; grotesquely then br You set them dancing, these dead men. br They stamp and prance with sobbing breath, br Victims of wine or love or death, br In ragged time they jump, they shake br Their heads, sweating to overtake br The impetuous tune flying ahead. br They flounder after, with legs of lead. br Now, suddenly as it started, play br Stops, the short echo dies away, br The corpses drop, a senseless heap, br The drunk men gaze about like sheep. br Grinning, the lovers sigh and stare br Up at the broad moon hanging there, br While Tom, five fingers to his nose, br Skips off...And the last bugle blows.