Page:Stevenson - Songs of Travel (1896).djvu/90

Rh The drums of war, the drums of peace,

Roll through our cities without cease,

And all the iron halls of life

Ring with the unremitting strife.

The common lot we scarce perceive.

Crowds perish, we nor mark nor grieve:

The bugle calls—we mourn a few!

What corporal's guard at Waterloo?

What scanty hundreds more or less

In the man-devouring Wilderness?

What handful bled on Delhi ridge?

—See, rather, London, on thy bridge

The pale battalions trample by,

Resolved to slay, resigned to die.

Count, rather, all the maimed and dead

In the unbrotherly war of bread.

See, rather, under sultrier skies

What vegetable Londons rise, 74