The Bugle

Oh, the flute it tells of parting, and all things sweet and sad, And the gay guitar of frolic, and song and laughter glad: But the bugle tells of daring, of chargers' champ and neigh, The sounding voice of warfare, the clangour of the fray. It holds the host from combat, when hand-held war steeds fret; It sounds to ringing charges the world will ne'er forget: When foemen creep from ambush, it rends the trembling night, And makes the sleeping bivouac a fiery swathe of fight. Its voice is hope and courage, and all that's young and brave, Full filled with high ambition, with strength to slay and save; It nerves the flagging footstep to struggle toward the goal; It drives men forth to action; it wakes the rover's soul. It's oh the strenuous yearning that thrills you thro' and thro', When you hear it calling, calling, and you know it calls for you; And it's oh the eager longing, the longing nigh to pain, When your feet must keep from roving, and the bugle call in vain!