The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 57, July, 1862. Various

      Many a righteous cause on earth

      To many a battle growing,

      Of music God has thought them worth,

      A gift of His bestowing.

      It came through Jubal into life;

      For Lamech's son inventing

      The double sounds of drum and fife,

      They both became consenting.

      For music good

      Wakes manly mood,

      Intrepid goes

      Against our foes.

      Calls stoutly, "On!

      Fall on! fall on!

      Clear field and street

      Of hostile feet,

      Shoot, thrust them through, and cleave,

      Not one against you leave!"

      Elias prophecy would make

      In thirsty Israel's passion:

      "To me a minstrel bring," he spake,

      "Who plays in David's fashion."

      Soon came on him Jehovah's hand,

      In words of help undoubted,—

      Great waters flowed the rainless land,

      The foe was also routed.

      Drom, Druri, Drom,

      Pom, Pom, Pom, Pom,

      Drumming and fifing good

      Make hero-mood;

      Prophets upspring,

      Poets, too, sing;

      Music is life

      To peace and strife,—

      And men have ever heeded

      What chief by them is needed.

      In Dorian mood when he would sing,

      Timotheus the charmer,

      'Tis said the famous lyre would bring

      All listeners into armor:

      It woke in Alexander rage

      For war, and nought would slake it,

      Unless he could the world engage,

      And his by conquest make it.

      Timotheus

      Of Miletus

      Could strongly sing

      To rouse the King

      Of Macedon,

      Heroic one,

      Till, in his ire

      And manly fire,

      For shield and weapon rising,

      He went, the foe chastising.

      For what God drives, that ever goes,—

      So sang courageous Judith;

      No one can such as He oppose;

      There prospers what He broodeth.

      Who has from God a martial mood,

      Through all resistance breaking,

      Can prove himself 'gainst heroes good,

      On foes a vengeance taking.

      Drums, when we droop;

      Stand fast, my troop!

      Let dart and sabre

      The air belabor;

      Give them no heed,

      But be agreed

      That flight be a breach of honor:

      Of that be hearty scorner.

      Although a part, as haps alway,

      Will faintly take to fleeing,

      A lion's heart have I to-day

      For Kaiser Henry's seeing.

      The wheat springs forth, the chaff's behind;12

      Strike harder, then, and braver;

      Perhaps they all will change their mind,

      So, brothers, do not waver!

      Kyrie eleison!

      Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom,

      Alarum beat,

      There's no retreat;

      Wilt soon be slashed,

      Be pierced and gashed:

      But none of these things heeding,

      The foe, too, set a-bleeding.

      Many good surgeons have we here,

      Again to heal us ready;

      With God's help, then, be of good cheer,

      The Pagans grow unsteady:

      Let not thy courage sink before

      A foe already flying;

      Revenge itself shall give thee more,

      And hearten it, if dying.

      Drom, Drari, Drom,

      Kyrie eleison!

      Strike, thrust,—for we

      Must victors be;

      Let none fall out,

      Keep order stout;

      Close to my side,

      Comrade, abide!

      Be grace of God revealed now,

      And help us hold the field now!

      God doth Himself encamp us round,

      Himself the tight inspiring;

      The foe no longer stands his ground,

      On every side retiring;

      Ye brothers, now set boldly on

      The hostile ranks!—they waver,—

      They break before us and are gone,—

      Praise be to God the Saver!

      Drom, Drari, Drom,

      Come, brother, come!

      Drums, make a noise!

      My troops, rejoice!

      Help now pursue

      And thrust and hew;

      Pillage restrain,—

      The spoils remain

      In reach of every finger,

      But not a foe wilt linger.

      Ye bold campaigners, praise the Lord,

      And strifeful heroes, take now

      The prize He doth to us accord,

      Good cheer and pillage make now:

      What each one finds that let him take,

      But friendly share your booty,

      For parents', wives', and children's sake,

      For household use or beauty.

      Pidi, Pom, Pom, Pom,

      Field-surge on come,

      My gash to bind,

      Am nearly blind,—

      The arrows stick,

      Out pull them quick,—

      A bandage here,

      To save my ear,—

      Come, bind me up,

      And reach