When the foe is pressing and the shells come down
In a stream like maxim fire,
When the long grey ranks seem to thicken all the while,
And they stamp on the last of the wire,
When all along the line comes a whisper on the wind
That you hear through the drumming of the guns:
“They are through over there and the right is in the air,
And there is n't any end to the Huns,” —
Then keep along a-shooting till you can n't shoot more,
And hit‘ em with a shovel on the head.
Do n't forget a lot of folk have beaten them before,
And a Hun'll never hurt you if he's dead.
If you're in a hole and your hopes begin to fail,
If you're in a losing fight,
Think a bit of Jonah in the belly of the whale,
‘ Cause-he-got-out-all-right.