A ragged drummer rides along the street...

A ragged drummer rides along the street,

And at his coming

The silence fills with tunes and rustling feet

And voices humming.

He rode a year ago from far away,

On charger prancing,

With bright new buttons and with ribbons gay,

And banners dancing.

Oh, he was fatter than the bursting drum

He bore so proudly,

His roaring music woke the silence dumb

To thunder loudly.

And by his side the old men and the young

Had followed cheering

Into the sunset smiling as they sung,

Nor thought of fearing.

They left their lovers and their mothers’ lap,

Their homes demolish,

“For, look, I have a ribbon for my cap,

A sword to polish!”

And so the town was silent once again,

Though tunes of battle

Beat fearful in the wind, or in the rain

Ghost drums would rattle.

But at the chuckling dice or careful loom,

Or candled churches

A few forgot or prayed or followed doom

With drunken lurches....

Now loom and bar and church disgorge the throng,

In huddled masses

They stand aghast to hear the drummer's song

As back he passes —

Palsied and drear and bent he turns alone

In rags and tatters,

And on a soundless barrel with a bone

He beats and batters.

“Where march your feet so gaily, careless crowd,

That we may kiss them?

Where sound your little songs that rang so loud

To us that miss them?”

There are no songs, no happy marching feet,

No favours flying:

The drummer passes... on the quiet street

The sun is dying.

Sun that must bleed to death so red and brave!...

Have done with weeping,

But put your ribbons on a soldier's grave

As he lies sleeping.