DU poetry fans - Help, please.

I'm trying to find the title and author of an anti-war poem the last line of which is:

"...and when Ambition's voice commands,
March, and fight, and fall in foreign lands."

Sound familiar to anyone?

John Scott of Amwell

The Drum

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains
And burning towns, and ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widow's tears, and orphan's moans;
And all that Misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

I used to be a traveling poet. Weird that I should know this.

http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/scott11.html

Go here:
http://www.veteransforpeace.org/poems_on_war_041903.htm

Thanks, nostamj!

It's as good as I remembered it was. Great poem.

I used to be a hawkish teenager until I read this poem. From that point on I have been a pacifist.

Ducle et Decorum est
by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. --
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.