We've soldiered many, many moons
In this old plugging war,
And all the ills and all the thrills,
We've had‘ em o'er and o'er.
Shell-fire, G. I. Cans and Gas —
Night work in No Man's Land —
And everything that calls for nerve,
Endurance, guts and sand.
We've argued which we liked the worst —
Machine-guns, gas or shell.
We've ruminated carefully —
And done it rather well.
And after all our resume
And cogitating bull,
We've reached a clear decision,
Most amplified and full:—
The greatest time in all the life
Of any living man —
The mightiest moment of the Game —
The proudest, high elan;
The thing we came three thousand miles
Across the seas to do —
“The Day,” the splendid hour
That waits for me and you,
Arrives — We spring into the wastes
Of land, ripped, roweled and barred —
The battle-lust in brain and eye —
The weary jaw set hard;
The rifle gripped in hands of steel,
Where, flashing in the sun,
Sweep on our blazing bayonets,
The terror of the Hun.