Classic Poem

Young lads tramping, fifes and drums —
Down the street the hubbub comes;

And the drum-sticks drub again
On my stretched and aching brain,

While the screeching of the fife
Just goes through me like a knife.

Yet I thought the music gay
When Dick Lishman marched away,

And I laughed; for what was he
But a lad who bothered me —

But a man of many men
I had little need of then?

Now I know that if the fife
Cut my heart-strings like a knife,

Rattling drum-sticks, rub-a-dub,
On my coffin-lid would drub,

And my heart would never rest
In the hollow of my breast,

But would always start and beat
To the tramping of dead feet.