The Drums

The stars are strange;
My native land lies far away.
A warrior's code lies heavy on my soul,
And all the while in darksome dreams
I hear the drums,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The slow-march beat.

How can the hand that holds the child
Still be the hand that stops the hearts
Of fathers, daughters, wives and sons?
And all the while in darksome dreams
I hear the drums,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The slow-march beat.

My comrades die in pain
Over scorched and arid bits of soil
I'm afraid I'll never see my wife and child again.
And all the while in darksome dreams
I hear the drums,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The slow-march beat.

I'm home at last;
The caisson moves the flag-draped box
Up to my final, peaceful resting place.
And all the while in darksome dreams
You hear the drums,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The rat-a-tat-tat,
The slow-march beat.