Some say this war was fought and won
With gleaming bayonets,
That lift and laugh with Death's own chaff
And leave no fond regrets:
Some, by the long lean foul-lipped guns
Where the first barrages meet,
But I, by the poor old weary limping
Tired broken feet.
Some say this war was fought and won
By the crawling, reeking gas;
Some, by the flitting birdmen,
That dip and pause and pass:
Some, by the splitting hand-grenades —
But I, I hear the beat
Of the poor old faithful worn limping
Tired broken feet.
Some say the war was fought and won
By This or That or Those —
But I, by heel and sunken arch
And blistered, bleeding toes.
Drag on, drag on, oh weary miles,
Through mire, slush and sleet,
To the glory of the rhythm
Of the poor old broken feet.