As we sit in rapture, listening to the chime.
Will ever the sense of music in man,
Having remained since history began,
Be obliterated in time to come;
And his taste for sounds become numb,
By the strain on him these machines make,
Hounding him by their grating sleep or wake,
By the screeching buzzes they make;
With our songs all ground up into rag,
Even the stirring ones of the glorious flag,