Left-right-left! left-right-left! list to the marching feet!
Thum-thum-thum! thum-thum-thum! hark to the drum’s quick beat!
It calls me now as it calls before,
When the nation’s sons prepared for war,
And marched through the crowded street.
Left-right-left! left-right-left! didn’t we make a show?
Thum-thum-thum! thum-thum-thum! didn’t they cheer us so?
We felt we were men with a task to do,
And we vowed one and all we’d see it through.
Or we’d lie where the flowers grow.
Rapid fire! never tire! see that you waste no shot!
All cease fire! they retire! Foes -yet a gallant lot!
Of that awful hour shall no craven tell,
‘Tis the tale of the man who has borne him well.
Where the battle flames were hot.
Left-right-left! left-right-left! list to the heavy feet!
Thum-thum! thum-thum! hark to the muffled beat!
For there’s a crape on the drum when the fighting’s done,
And the man who lives reverses his gun,
To the “Last Post” clear and sweet.
E. Maurice Little (1923)
 That is, a cloth on the snare drum, to make the beat softer in a funeral procession.