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!