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.