Are you at prayer, asleep or sick? What odds? You're forced to list
To the tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!
They throng with thunderous tramplings the city thoroughfare,
In rural nooks their shoutings are on the summer air;
Though sea-side peace be pleasant, its spell may not resist
The tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!
O Holy Noise! O latest and greatest of man's gods!
With common-sense at issue, with comfort at fierce odds;
Divine, of course, you must be,—thrice lucky to enlist
The tow-row, tow-row, tow-row of the loud Salvationist!