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A Song of Winter

Robert Service (18741958)

 It isn't the foe that we fear;
 It isn't the bullets that whine;
 It isn't the business career
 Of a shell, or the bust of a mine;
 It isn't the snipers who seek
 To nip our young hopes in the bud:
 No, it isn't the guns,
 And it isn't the Huns--
 It's the MUD,
               MUD,
                    MUD.

 It isn't the melee we mind.
 That often is rather good fun.
 It isn't the shrapnel we find
 Obtrusive when rained by the ton;
 It isn't the bounce of the bombs
 That gives us a positive pain:
 It's the strafing we get
 When the weather is wet--
 It's the RAIN,
                RAIN,
                      RAIN.

 It isn't because we lack grit
 We shrink from the horrors of war.
 We don't mind the battle a bit;
 In fact that is what we are for;
 It isn't the rum-jars and things
 Make us wish we were back in the fold:
 It's the fingers that freeze
 In the boreal breeze--
 It's the COLD,
                COLD,
                      COLD.

 Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold,
 The cold, the mud, and the rain;
 With weather at zero it's hard for a hero
 From language that's rude to refrain.
 With porridgy muck to the knees,
 With sky that's a-pouring a flood,
 Sure the worst of our foes
 Are the pains and the woes
 Of the RAIN,
              the COLD,
                        and the MUD.