There are sounds of martial music,

But the laugh is hushed within,

As the soldier boys march bravely down the street;

A little child is weeping,

As she listens to the din,

“Oh! my papa! Oh! my papa!”

Wailed the tiny little mite.

“You have gone and left poor mamma all alone;

Come back, my darling papa,

Oh! do come home tonight,

And see how good your little girl has grown.

“I won’t be naughty, papa,

And I won’t make any noise,

When papa’s head is aching him so bad;

I will walk about so quietly

And put away my toys,

Your little girl won’t make her father sad.”

But the tiny voice fell empty,

On the shadows in the room,

And the music in the distance fainter grew;

This is but a single instance

Of the scenes within the gloom,

Which the loved ones left behind are passing through.