  [Written for an entertainment given by the Fife and Drum Corps (36 uniformed members) of the Third Ward Grammar School of Long Island City, of which the writer is Principal.] There are fields of martial glory Where the slain are ne'er bemoaned; There are victories though silent, Where grim monarchs are dethroned; There are scenes of strife and foray Where gigantic forces strive For the mastery and triumph Of the ends for which they live. There are forces more puissant Than ten million armed men, There are banners that are emblems Of the mighty tongue and pen, That reflect upon their blazon Honest purpose grand and true, Such as never graced the victors Of Sedan and Waterloo. There are weapons in these contests Keener than the Damask blade, There are metals of such temper As no crucible e'er made; For the dross must be extracted In the furnace of the soul Till no refuse or pollution Shall defile the perfect whole. Though this army counts its millions, Each must face alone the foe, Each must bring a special weapon, Each must strike himself the blow That shall free him from the shackles Of that despot and his train, Who with ignorance and vices Would destroy the heart and brain. Our true sword is Education And grim Ignorance our foe; We are battling with our passions, And our spirits are aglow With a full determination To accept the proven truth That the days of precious seed-time, Are the sunny days of youth. Day by day the contest rages And each task that's daily done, Brings a soothing satisfaction That another victory's won. Aids in each succeeding strife, To make the struggles lighter In the battles of our life. There are avenues and byways Which lead into the heart, Whose intricate environments Require the highest art To tell what inspiration Shall touch a dormant mind, And fire it with a living zeal For a station more refined. It is only voice of music That speaks universal tongue; It matters not in what accent A sweet melody is sung, It will find responsive feelings Which will aptly understand Though it be of unknown measure And sung in a foreign land. We come with our martial music, With our noisy fife and drum To inspire the weak and weary, To open the mouths of the dumb, To train our every emotion For a better sphere in life, To enjoy for the passing moment The sound of the drum and fife. We hope our notes may be peaceful And free from carnage of war; We would bind up the broken hearted And cover the wound and scar, But should foe our country menace And refuse to be just and calm, We would sound aloud the tocsin And march to defend Uncle Sam. |
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