Here you will find the Poem Drill of poet Francis William Lauderdale Adams
WHEN day's hard task's done, Eve's scant meal partaken, Out we steal each one, Weariless, unshaken. In small reeking squares, Garbaged plots, we gather, Little knots and pairs, Brother, sister, father. Then the Word is given. In their silent places Under lowering heaven, Range our stern-set faces. Now we march and wheel In our clumsy line, Shouldering sticks for steel, Thoughts bitter as brine! Drill, drill, drill, and drill! It is only thus Conquer yet we will Those who've conquered us. Patience, sisters, mothers! We must not forget Foiled dead fathers, brothers; They must teach us yet. In that Hour we see, The Hour of our Desire, What shall their slayers be? As the stubble to the fire!
