The Bugle Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

Oh, the flute it tells of parting, and all things sweet and sad,
And the gay guitar of frolic, and song and laughter glad:
But the bugle tells of daring, of chargers' champ and neigh,
The sounding voice of warfare, the clangour of the fray.

It holds the host from combat, when hand-held war steeds fret;
It sounds to ringing charges the world will ne'er forget:
When foemen creep from ambush, it rends the trembling night,
And makes the sleeping bivouac a fiery swathe of fight.

Its voice is hope and courage, and all that's young and brave,
Full filled with high ambition, with strength to slay and save;
It nerves the flagging footstep to struggle toward the goal;
It drives men forth to action; it wakes the rover's soul.

It's oh the strenuous yearning that thrills you thro' and thro',
When you hear it calling, calling, and you know it calls for you;
And it's oh the eager longing, the longing nigh to pain,
When your feet must keep from roving, and the bugle call in vain!