They, too, have heard the drum-beat,
They follow the bugle's call,
Those who are swift with pity
On the field where brave men fall.
When the battle boom is silent
And the echoing thunder dies,
They haste to the plain, red sodden
With the blood of sacrifice.
The flag that floats above them
Is marked with a crimson sign,
Pledge of a great compassion
And the rifted heart divine.
And so they follow the bugle
And heed the drumbeat's call,
But their errand is one of pity:--
They succor the men who fall.