A Song Of Winter Weather

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.