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 melee 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.