The thrill of war's a base deceit,
The rattle of the drum's a lie;
It lures brave men with scurrying feet
To go where many dangers fly;
It sings a soldier's death is sweet,
It tells how great it is to die.
And yet no death can splendid be
That's caused by selfishness and pride;
The weeping widow 1 Does not she
Long for the husband at her side?
Can any selfish victory
Restore the loved one. that has died?
To die for others may be fine,
But not to die for others' gain;
The thin and faltering battle line,
The dead men on the bloody plain
Are seldom there by God's design;
Some human soul must wear the stain.
Murder in uniform, is war,
Exalted only by a thrill;
And how long must it be before
Men will not blindly rush to kill?
How many generations more
Before the cannon's voice is still?
