The torturous hike up the hill road,
Plowing through snow and mud;
The poor weary arches breaking —
The socks that are wet with our blood:
The terrible, binding, burning strap
That's cutting our shoulder through —
And our parched lips stammer, “My Country,
For you and only for you.”
The slight and the slur and the nagging
We must take from a rowdy or cad;
And we simply salute and say “Yes sir,”
And pretend that we never feel mad:
Though our heart is a forest of hatred —
And justice seems hidden from view —
And we mutter, “For you, oh my Country —
For you, yea, and only for you.”
When all evening long the guns’ reddened glares
Turn night into hellish day,
Till in Berserker rage their silver bursts cut
The drab of the dawn's growing gray:
When over the top we are starting again —
Full knowing the thing that we do —
We murmur, “For you, oh my Country —
For you, aye and only for you.”