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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>As The Troops Went Through</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I heard this day, as I may no more, <br>The world's heart throb at my workshop door. <br>The sun was keen, and the day was still; <br>The township drowsed in, a haze of heat. <br>A stir far off on the sleepy hill, <br>The measured beat of their buoyant feet, <br>And the lilt and thrum <br>Of a little drum, <br>The song they sang in a cadence low, <br>The piping note of a piccolo. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The township woke, and the doors flew wide; <br>The women trotted their boys beside. <br>Across the bridge on a single heel <br>The soldiers came in a golden glow, <br>With throb of song and the chink of steel, <br>The gallant crow of the piccolo. <br>Good and brown they were, <br>And their arms swung bare. <br>Their fine young faces revived in me <br>A boyhood's vision of chivalry. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The lean, hard regiment tramping down, <br>Bushies, miners and boys from town. <br>From 'mid the watchers the road along <br>One fell in line with the khaki men. <br>He took the stride, and he caught their song, <br>And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben, <br>Long Dave McCree, <br>And the Weavers three, <br>All whisked away by the “Come! Come! Come!” <br>The lusty surge of the vaunting drum. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I swore a prayer for each soldier lad. <br>He was the son that might have had; <br>The tall, bold boy who was never mine, <br>All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through, <br>His shoulders square, and his chin in line, <br>Was marching too with the gallant few. <br>Passed the muffled beat <br>Of their swanking feet, <br>The swell of drum, the exulting crow, <br>The wild-bird note of the piccolo. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=374749" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">They dipped away in the listless trees; <br>A mother wept on her beaded knees <br>For sons gone out to the long war's end; <br>But more than mother or man wept I <br>Who had no son in the world to send. <br>The hour lagged by, and drifting high <br>Came the fitful hum <br>Of the little drum, <br>And faint, but still with an ardent flow, <br>The pibroch, call of the piccolo.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Edward+George+Dyson">Edward George Dyson</a></strong></div>

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