Poems of the Great War/Commandeered

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LAST year he drew the harvest home
Along the winding upland lane;
The children twisted marigolds
And clover flowers, to deck his mane.
Last year—he drew the harvest home!

To-day—with puzzled, patient face,
With ears a-droop, and weary feet,
He marches to the sound of drums,
And draws the gun along the street.
To-day—he draws the guns of war!