As The Troops Went Through
I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.
The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.
The lean, hard regiment tramping down,
Bushies, miners and boys from town.
From 'mid the watchers the road along
One fell in line with the khaki men.
He took the stride, and he caught their song,
And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben,
Long Dave McCree,
And the Weavers three,
All whisked away by the “Come! Come! Come!”
The lusty surge of the vaunting drum.
I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.
He was the son that might have had;
The tall, bold boy who was never mine,
All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through,
His shoulders square, and his chin in line,
Was marching too with the gallant few.
Passed the muffled beat
Of their swanking feet,
The swell of drum, the exulting crow,
The wild-bird note of the piccolo.
They dipped away in the listless trees;
A mother wept on her beaded knees
For sons gone out to the long war's end;
But more than mother or man wept I
Who had no son in the world to send.
The hour lagged by, and drifting high
Came the fitful hum
Of the little drum,
And faint, but still with an ardent flow,
The pibroch, call of the piccolo.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Related quotes
Can You Hear It
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
I like that beat as it comes along.
It’s the same beat and the same tune,
we all know it’ll be here soon.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
fast or slow it’s a catchy song.
I kind of look forward to its day
and it's a shame when it goes away.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
It's getting closer and it won’t be long.
At last it's coming down our street
with its catchy drumming beat.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
it's so simple I can’t go wrong.
It's getting louder as it comes near,
the people watching give it a cheer.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the beat’s blasting out loud and strong.
The man inside this sweeping machine
sings as he works to keep the streets clean.
Drum, drum, tipi tap, tong,
the sounds are fading as it goes along.
But it's nice to know as he sweeps the curb,
his drum, drum, tipi tap, tong, has the final word.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Drummer Boy
A drummer boy dressed in white tapped his drum as he passed by my bed,
he never looked at me, and not a word was said.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, was his marching beat.
There was blood from a wound, but he kept to his feet.
As he marched back and forth it looked as though he was going to fall,
but he continued to beat his drum, as he walked through the wall.
On his departure the sound of a bugle was heard above the drum,
whistling rifle shots and cannon fire added to the battle’s hum.
A boy dressed in red and white, blowing a bugle marched passed my bed,
he had suffered a wound, and blood was flowing from his head.
Blowing with all his might I could see the determination on his face,
he seemed to be running out of breath, as he slowly lost the pace.
The drummer boy came up beside him and marched by his side,
the bugle boy stood up straight, and blew the charge as he cried.
Another drummer boy passed my bed followed by two more,
the bugle boy stood and looked ahead, and then fell to the floor.
Several soldiers charged pass, with bayonets fixed for attack,
passing the drummer boy one yelled, “Keep playing and don’t look back.”
With the sound of bullets in the air and shells exploding all around
soldiers charged and fell by my bed to the now distant drumming sound.
It suddenly all went quiet as everyone disappeared through the wall,
except for the drummer boy who played as he stood tall.
Tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum, tippy tap drum; a much softer beat,
he then looked at me with tears in his eyes, as he faded at my feet.
poem by Orlando Belo
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I would if I could I’d make a poem
Auditions
I would if I could I’d make a poem
the best you have ever seen
Then you’d see me as I see you
when I see your heart in me
I know I’ll need all the right words
and all in their proper places
I may also need a miracle, If
I’m to capture your embraces
I arranged to hold auditions
but so many words applied
‘big ones pushing to the front
the small ones knocked aside
Piled high in the wings together
all contending for position
Each one claiming a special
gift, an emotion or a mission
Some claimed subtleties of meanings
beyond their usage or their years
Others claimed ‘lyrical syncopation’
like some lexiconic engineers
One insisted – it could offer
Rhythm, Rhyme and alliteration
And simile and harmony
and a yet more syncopation
Those that failed were outraged
making war on the chosen few
in the end my poem collapsed
when they tore the thing in two
As I walked out at the end of the day
with my dreams of love deflated
I saw you with them in a bar nearby
singing a song that they’d created…..
…………………….My piccolo is a big oboe
…………………….beside your synthesizer
…………………….so bang my drum
…………………….and I’ll bite your bum
…………………….and we’ll have fun for hours
What do you mean?
The hell you were?
What, you were auditioning me?
What's he got that I don't?
…………………….My piccolo is a big oboe
…………………….beside your synthesizer
…………………….so bang my drum
…………………….and I’ll bite your bum
…………………….and we’ll have fun for hours
poem by Sean Joyce
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Beat Of Your Drum
Photograph king, watches you go
Now fashions may change, heaven knows, but you
Still leave a stain on me
Only to go colours may fade
The seasons may change, weather blows, but you still leave a mark on me
Wrong-negative fades-never the twain, reckless and tame
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat I beat it
I feel it
Disco brat-follow the pack
Watching you peel, heaven knows, prison cant hold all this greedy intention
Only to go-i picture you now
Music may change-hi-di-ho keen to follow your nose
Wrong-love out of tune
Sweet is the night, bright light destroys me
I like the beat of your drum
I like to look in your eyes
I like to look thru your things
Id like to beat on your drum
I like the smell of your flesh
I like the dirt that you dish
I like the clothes that you wear
Id like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
I like to beat on your drum
I like to beat on your drum
I like your face in the crowd
I like to beat on your drum
I beat it I beat cant beat it
I feel it
Cant beat it
I feel it
Ho beat it
I beat it
Oh yeah
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to yell it out loud
Id like to beat on your drum
Cant beat it cant beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like your face in the crowd
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Cant beat it
Cant beat it
I be there
Baet it all out
Beat it all in the crowd
Beat it beat it beat it beat it
I feel it I feel it
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to beat on your drum
Id like to blow your horne
Id like to beat on your drum
Yeah yeah yeah
Ahhhhhh
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Her Drummer Boy
Once upon a
time
a very young
girl
started
searching
for her
drummer-boy.
She came
in
contact
with one
thinking
this
is he
not so.
Time passed
quickly
other drum
beats
were heard
but they
were not
the right
beat.
Then one
day
in the far
distance
she heard
a foreign
drum
so very
different.
It was a
new love
song
one
she had
never
heard
before.
The drum
beat
grew
louder
louder
bidding her
come and
explore.
As she
stepped
near
there was
he
standing
in the
forrest
alone.
drumming
their
love song.
At last
she had
found her
drummer-boy
the one
she spent
years
searching
for.
poem by Heather Burns
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The Toy Band
A Song of the Great Retreat
Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town,
Lights out and never a glint o' moon:
Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down,
Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon.
"Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again,
Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!
"Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me,
Penny whistles too to play the tune!
Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see
We're a band!" said the weary big Dragoon.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!"
Cheerly goes the dark road, cheerly goes the night,
Cheerly goes the blood to keep the beat;
Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight
With a little penny drum to lift their feet.
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake, and take the raod again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!
As long as there's an Englishman to ask a tale of me,
As long as I can tell the tale aright,
We'll not forget the penny whistle's wheedle-deedle-dee
And the big Dragoon a-beating down the night,
Rubadub! Rubadub! Wake and take the road again,
Wheedle-deedle-deedle-dee, Come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife, and drum!
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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The Beat
Drum, drum, hear the drum
beating its beat
for what's to come.
It beats like your heart
a steady boom.
It slows sometimes
and then will resume.
And when the drum beats
can't be heard
and your heart no longer
can be stirred,
the silence reaches where you are
because the drum beat
is too far.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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With Trumpet and Drum
With big tin trumpet and little red drum,
Marching like soldiers, the children come!
It 's this way and that way they circle and file---
My! but that music of theirs is fine!
This way and that way, and after a while
They march straight into this heart of mine!
A sturdy old heart, but it has to succumb
To the blare of that trumpet and beat of that drum!
Come on, little people, from cot and from hall---
This heart it hath welcome and room for you all!
It will sing you its songs and warm you with love,
As your dear little arms with my arms intertwine;
It will rock you away to the dreamland above---
Oh, a jolly old heart is this old heart of mine,
And jollier still is it bound to become
When you blow that big trumpet and beat that red drum!
So come; though I see not his dear little face
And hear not his voice in this jubilant place,
I know he were happy to bid me enshrine
His memory deep in my heart with your play---
Ah me! but a love that is sweeter than mine
Holdeth my boy in its keeping to-day!
And my heart it is lonely---so, little folk, come,
March in and make merry with trumpet and drum!
poem by Eugene Field
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The Death Of Aliatar
FROM THE SPANISH.
'Tis not with gilded sabres
That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue--
But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The banner of the Phenix,
The flag that loved the sky,
That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high--
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,
The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,
As mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Brave Aliatar led forward
A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril
Against the leaguering foe.
On horseback went the gallant Moor,
That gallant band to lead;
And now his bier is at the gate,
From whence he pricked his steed.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;
They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They smote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,
And broken, but not beaten, were
The gallant ranks he led.
Now mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Oh! what was Zayda's sorrow,
How passionate her cries!
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free
Than that poor maiden's eyes.
Say, Love--for didst thou see her tears:
Oh, no! he drew more tight
The blinding fillet o'er his lids
To spare his eyes the sight.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
Nor Zayda weeps him only,
But all that dwell between
The great Alhambra's palace walls
And springs of Albaicin.
The ladies weep the flower of knights,
The brave the bravest here;
The people weep a champion,
The Alcaydes a noble peer.
While mournfully and slowly
The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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The Drum
I'm a beautiful red, red drum,
And I train with the soldier boys;
As up the street we come,
Wonderful is our noise!
There's Tom, and Jim, and Phil,
And Dick, and Nat, and Fred,
While Widow Cutler's Bill
And I march on ahead,
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum -
Oh, there's bushels of fun in that
For boys with a little red drum!
The Injuns came last night
While the soldiers were abed,
And they gobbled a Chinese kite
And off to the woods they fled!
The woods are the cherry-trees
Down in the orchard lot,
And the soldiers are marching to seize
The booty the Injuns got.
With tum-titty-um-tum-tum,
And r-r-rat-tat-tat,
When soldiers marching come
Injuns had better scat!
Step up there, little Fred,
And, Charley, have a mind!
Jim is as far ahead
As you two are behind!
Ready with gun and sword
Your valorous work to do -
Yonder the Injun horde
Are lying in wait for you.
And their hearts go pitapat
When they hear the soldiers come
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And a tum-titty-um-tum-tum!
Course it's all in play!
The skulking Injun crew
That hustled the kite away
Are little white boys, like you!
But 'honest' or 'just in fun,'
It is all the same to me;
And, when the battle is won,
Home once again march we
With a r-r-rat-tat-tat
And tum-titty-um-tum-tum;
And there's glory enough in that
For the boys with their little red drum!
poem by Eugene Field
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Prelude
BY sunny market-place and street
Wherever I go my drum I beat,
And wherever I go in my coat of red
The ribbons flutter about my head.
I seek recruits for wars to come -
For slaughterless wars I beat the drum,
And the shilling I give to each new ally
Is hope to live and courage to die.
I know that new recruits shall come
Wherever I beat the sounding drum,
Till the roar of the march by country and town
Shall shake the tottering Dagons down.
For I was objectless as they
And loitering idly day by day;
But whenever I heard the recruiters come,
I left my all to follow the drum.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Bang The Drum Slowly
(Emmylou Harris/Guy Clark)
I meant to ask you how to fix that car
I always meant to ask you about the war
And what you saw across a bridge too far
Did it leave a scar
Or how you navigated wings of fire and steel
Up where heaven had no more secrets to conceal
And still you found the ground beneath your wheels
How did it feel
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
I meant to ask you how when everything seemed lost
And your fate was in a game of dice they tossed
There was still that line that you would never cross
At any cost
I meant to ask you how you lived what you believed
With nothing but your heart up your sleeve
And if you ever really were deceived
By the likes of me
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
Gone now is the day and gone the sun
There is peace tonight all over Arlington
But the songs of my life will still be sung
By the light of the moon you hung
I meant to ask you how to plow that field
I meant to bring you water from the well
And be the one beside you when you fell
Could you tell
Bang the drum slowly play the pipe lowly
To dust be returning from dust we begin
Bang the drum slowly I'll speak of things holy
Above and below me world without end
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Red Drum
The red drum beats
when every other drum stops beating
every soul dance to the rhythm of life
from the pulsating ethos of the red drum
the red drum not only beats
when you listen, the red drum is talking
every stony heart has a sheath for a knife
from a gush on the tempo of the red drum
the red drum by nature is sexy
when your heart flutter and in frenzy
every stolen glance from your heartthrob
from the blushes irrigated by the red drum
the red drum is jealous and vindictive
when retrospect’s stab is aggressive
every soft spot, love and pardon flee
from dirges the red drum goes on spree
the red drum you should know is the heart
when in our short lives destiny plays its part
every promise given not to stray our drumsticks
from where we are identified as God’s handpicks
poem by Dela Bobobee
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Beat the plowshare
Pound the drum
Of war to come
Rhythm on steel
Red from the forge
Forms the sword
To carry to war
The sledge makes beat
On thinning edge
As it pounds
pounds
pounds
pounds
It sounds the drum
Of war to come
Soon it will be echoed
By marching men
cries of battle
Sounds of war
The sword will lead
Before the flag
Followed by the sound
Of drums
Pounding
Pounding
To war
Today, I beat my plowshare
And I listen to the drum
poem by James Timothy Jarrett
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When Scarborough Had Land
I remember Scarborough proud Protestant and blue,
With portraits of a Queen near every pew.
No Sunday shops, no music hops, no liquor on display,
Where the Lodges and the Legions marched each Victoria Day.
Where ensigns flew, Union Jacks too, unique uniforms on parade.
A raucous rush of pompous pride by pals from every trade,
As they beat the drum down Danforth Road on the twenty fourth of May,
Out to the country and back by Byng, again on Dominion Day.
Those were loyal times before the war for king and queen and all,
For more than a few, this love did cause, their ultimate downfall.
It did at Dieppe and D-day too like their seniors at the Somme,
They died for king and country; they did it for a song.
And soon they were forgotten, those who fought for king and crown,
Though those lucky to return had saved the country and the town.
They would walk again forever with their flags flying high,
Marching medals of the heroes that no one could deny.
Except the town of Scarborough was down on the drawing board,
And those fields and sheep and meadows didn't fit the grand accord.
No newcomers paid attention as the veterans vied for space,
And their parades of marching medals only had an old-time grace.
And Scarborough changed by day and night from a township to a city,
Old soldiers faded fast and few and no one had much pity.
And the immigrants came in wave after wave from places far and wide,
As the soldiers went to grave after grave with their flags and faded pride.
But still a few survive today and I'm sure they are not pleased.
'bout the changes to the town and how Scarborough had been squeezed,
From a township to a city where no one cared for esprit de corps,
So they amalgamated with Toronto and Scarborough was no more.
And culture clash and bureaucrat and ever changing rules,
Of mandarin and moguls and Tamils dressed in jewels,
While traffic roared and the buildings soared sometimes to sixty stories,
Where women wrapped in saris sashayed in all their glories.
They had lost the town without a fight, those men from long ago.
And everything was centralized; they said to save some dough,
But the authorities had lied again; it was all politically correct,
And no one marched, no flags did fly and no one did protest.
There are sometimes you still can hear it, the distant drone of pipes,
And men in kilts still carry on, just watched by boys on bikes.
They're just a faint reminder now of the many marching bands,
When those with flags and medals marched and Scarborough had some land.
DEC 1ST 2010
poem by James Bredin
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Heart of God
O great heart of God,
Once vague and lost to me,
Why do I throb with your throb to-night,
In this land, eternity?
O little heart of God,
Sweet intruding stranger,
You are laughing in my human breast,
A Christ-child in a manger.
Heart, dear heart of God,
Beside you now I kneel,
Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine,
Where God has set His seal.
Wild thundering heart of God
Out of my doubt I come,
And my foolish feet with prophets' feet,
March with the prophets' drum.
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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New Mexican Mountain
I watch the Indians dancing to help the young corn at Taos
pueblo. The old men squat in a ring
And make the song, the young women with fat bare arms, and a
few shame-faced young men, shuffle the dance.
The lean-muscled young men are naked to the narrow loins,
their breasts and backs daubed with white clay,
Two eagle-feathers plume the black heads. They dance with
reluctance, they are growing civilized; the old men persuade them.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed;
the beating heart, the simplest of rhythms,
It thinks the world has not changed at all; it is only a dreamer,
a brainless heart, the drum has no eyes.
These tourists have eyes, the hundred watching the dance, white
Americans, hungrily too, with reverence, not laughter;
Pilgrims from civilization, anxiously seeking beauty, religion,
poetry; pilgrims from the vacuum.
People from cities, anxious to be human again. Poor show how
they suck you empty! The Indians are emptied,
And certainly there was never religion enough, nor beauty nor
poetry here ... to fill Americans.
Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world has not changed.
Apparently only myself and the strong
Tribal drum, and the rockhead of Taos mountain, remember
that civilization is a transient sickness.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Don't Let Me Die in China, Lord!
I had a fright the other night,
I dreamt that I was ill,
The Angels fluttered round my bed,
They said: 'Now you be still! '
My heart beat like a pounding drum,
The pain was like a sword,
I had one thought, and only one:
'Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
The vision would not let me be,
I saw the future clear,
The landlord breaking down the door
To find me lying there.
'The Lao Wai’s gone, not paid the rent! '
He’d say in pu tong hua,
'We’d better call the embassy
They’ll send around a car.'
The embassy refused the car,
They didn’t want to show,
'He must belong to someone else,
He isn’t ours, you know! '
The neighbours filed in through the door
To look the last on me,
And clear the flat of anything
Not quite nailed down, you see.
'He looks all right, now that he’s dead, '
One mother told her son,
'Perhaps we should have talked to him.'
'- a little late now, Mum!
They say he studied pu tong hua
But never got it sussed,
We’ll have to make the funeral
As if he’s one of us.'
So later on that day they brought
The baskets full of flowers,
The big round silvery disks that shone
While they drew straws for hours,
For who would wail and cry for me
As I had no-one near,
So two wai po’s in old black clothes
Said: 'Fifty kwai an hour! '
For fifty kwai they set their chant
And woke the neighborhood,
And no one said to keep it down,
The Chinese understood.
A funeral is a sacred thing
For Han or old Yang Wei,
They kept their vigil for three days,
Then said: 'Today’s the day! '
At four o’clock that morning
In the stilly dark, forlorn,
They set up all their crackers
To erupt before the dawn,
They woke up all the neighbours
Who came down to see who wept,
While other Lao Wai’s turned in bed,
Rolled over, cursed, and slept.
And then the band, it started up,
An old Han marching song,
The big bass drum beat out of time,
A little late for some;
A little early for all those
Who just had got to sleep,
I wasn’t quite the flavour of
The neighborhood that week.
At six o’clock they marched away
All following the hearse,
A wooden cart pulled by four men,
I thought: 'Could things be worse? '
They marched along the highway
Disregarding life and limb,
The band it played along the way
A revolution hymn.
Then I awoke, (the pain had gone) ,
A-tremble, in a sweat,
I wasn’t ready then, I knew,
For Buddha’s belly yet!
And so I raised my eyes on high
To plead, entreat, implore:
'If you would grant me just one wish:
Don’t let me die in China, Lord! '
21 May 2006
poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Silent Battle
(In Memory of J. W. T. Jr.)
He was a soldier in that fight
Where there is neither flag nor drum,
And without sound of musketry
The stealthy foemen come.
Year in, year out, by day and night
They forced him to a slow retreat,
And for his gallant fight alone
No fife was blown, and no drum beat.
In winter fog, in gathering mist
The gray grim battle had its end --
And at the very last we knew
His enemy had turned his friend.
poem by Sara Teasdale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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At The Beating Of A Drum
Fear ye not the stormy future, for the Battle Hymn is strong,
And the armies of Australia shall not march without a song;
The glorious words and music of Australia's song shall come
When her true hearts rush together at the beating of a drum.
We may not be there to hear it – 'twill be written in the night,
And Australia's foes shall fear it in the hour before the fight.
The glorious words and music from a lonely heart shall come
When our sons shall rush to danger at the beating of the drum.
He shall be unknown who writes it; he shall soon forgotten be,
But the song shall ring through ages as a song of liberty.
And I say the words and music of our battle hymn shall come,
When Australia wakes in anger at the beating of a drum.
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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