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Poem	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.
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