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Rachel Lyman Field

The Kettledrums

The horns were gay as a brook in spring;

The fiddles sang in every string;

The viols grumbled; the flutes soared clear,

And the kettledrums were good to hear.

They played no tune but softly under

The rest they boomed their elfin thunder.

Oh, strange, and solemn, and wondrous sweet

To hear their rumblings, beat on beat!