There’s a clashing snarling rhythm down the valley broad and ample Of the drum, kettledrum, There’s a low, swelling rumor that is cavalry a-trample, Here they come, here they come, To the brassy crash and wrangle, to the horseman’s clink and jangle, And the restive legs beneath ’em all a-welter and a-tangle. “I am rhythm, dancing rhythm,” says the drum. “White and sorrel, roan and dapple, hocks as shiny as an apple, “Don’t they make a splendid showing, ears a-pricking, tails a-blowing? “Good boys--bless ’em--well they’re knowing all my tricks to set ’em going “To my rhythm, dancing rhythm!” says the drum. “I am rhythm, clashing rhythm, and the horses feel me with ’em. “I’m the foray and the raid, I’m the glancing sabre-blade. “Now I’m here, now I’m there, flashing on the unaware. “How I scout before the ranks, how I cloud along the flanks, “How the highway smokes behind me let the faint stars tell that find me “All night through, all night through, when the bridles drip with dew. “I’m the labor, toil, and pain, I’m the loss that shall be gain,” Says the rhythm, clashing rhythm, of the drum. “Did you speak of ‘useless slaughter’? Did you murmur ‘Christian love’? “Pray that such as these before you when the war-cloud bursts above, “With the bridle on the pommel meet the foemen as they come, “To the rhythm, dashing rhythm, “To the rhythm, crashing rhythm “To the crashing, dashing rhythm “Of the drum!”