Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/A Song of Winter Weather

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 mêlée 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.