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.

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"A Song Of Winter Weather" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2019. Web. 18 Apr. 2019. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/31963/a-song-of-winter-weather>.

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